


Give Me a Place to Stand and I Will Move the Earth

by jessicathebestica



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Gav's a cutie, Gen, M/M, Multi, also I love Courfeyrac so freaking much, and Gav, i love them all!!!, mainly e/R, these stupid french revolutionaries are ruining my life, who am I kidding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 18:48:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 95,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessicathebestica/pseuds/jessicathebestica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I feel like there’s something I’m supposed to say or do here,” Grantaire continued, “being the psuedo-boyfriend and all.  I just…I mean, it’s no small secret that I have never been considered ‘boyfriend material’, but it’s something I’m willing to work on if it’ll make you happy.  Do you, like, want a hug or something?”</p><p>Enjolras gave him a funny, almost accusatory, look.  “I don’t do hugs.”</p><p>Okay, then.  Hugs were now off the list indefinitely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Move-In Mayhem

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so if you follow me on tumblr, you might have seen the photo sets I made to go along with this fic. I finally got around to tweaking the first chapter so here you go! There are several relationships that I am focusing on, but (obviously) it centers around my otp, e/R. Feel free to comment or check me out on tumblr (rightplacewrongsandwich)!

Grantaire was bored.  Classes didn’t start till Monday—which wasn’t something to look forward to anyway as he always found excuses to skip them or just sleep in—and the downtown square was dull and uninspiring on this considerably cloudy afternoon. 

He pulled out his phone.

**R: Hello my lil ray of sunshine. What u up to right now?**

**Cosette: At the dorms. Everyone’s moving in today. And I do mean EVERYONE. Come & visit me? ; )**

**R: Pull my leg why don’t cha. Be there in 10.**

It was the perfect solution for Grantaire’s boredom because Cosette was a peach and ‘people watching’ happened to be one of his favorite past times.  Surely, characters of all temperaments would reveal themselves on move-in day.

When he arrived at the North Tower entrance of Cosette’s dorm, the girl in question was seated behind the front desk, spinning in her swivel chair absentmindedly.

“They stuck you with front desk duty already?  They must really hate you.”

Cosette planted her feet on the ground and kept them there until her chair went still.  She smiled up at her adorably disheveled friend.  “If they hated me, I would’ve been placed over there at Room Check-In,” she said, pointing to a large conference room on the right.  “ _They_ have to deal with nagging parents and asinine questions.  I’m just here to look pretty and direct students by pointing at signs.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes.  “Nice shirt.”

Cosette looked down at her chest where an image of geese in a V-formation was poised above the words **Let Us Be Your Guide**.  “Ugh.  My hall director made us wear them so that everyone can recognize the RAs.  He’s overly chipper all the time and I kind of want to twist his nipples until he falls to his knees and starts crying.”

“Kind of?” Grantaire asked skeptically.  “I feel like you put way too much thought into that imagery.  Also, it’s borderline psycho-sexual.”

Cosette shrugged, but in that cute, innocent little girl way that made you smile even if she was vocalizing her own sadistic thoughts.  “Let’s just hope it won’t come to that.  So, I get off in 15 minutes.  Wanna snag some substandard cafeteria food with me?  It’s free!”

But Grantaire didn’t hear the question, nor the offer of free food (which normally stimulated something within him).  He was distracted, quite transfixed actually, by the glowing sight in front of him.  All other senses dulled as he focused on the heavenly creature ten feet ahead.  This creature was a boy, no a man…more like a walking replica of Michengelo’s _David_.  He was inhumanly beautiful, yet demonstrated a ferocity that seemed unrivaled as he glared at a couple of teenagers tackling each other in the hallway.  “Shit,” he inadvertently mumbled, forgetting how to breathe or even form the basis of an intelligible sentence.

When Cosette realized Grantaire wasn’t giving her an answer any time soon, she followed his gaze.  “Oh, no,” she said with a mournful sigh.  “Don’t even look, R.  That has disaster written all over it.  I’m talking _tsunami_ here.”

Quite reluctantly, Grantaire tore his eyes from the blonde god, only to gape at his friend.  “You know him?  Sweet Jesus, Cosette, as my friend it is your duty to tell me everything you know about this man and don’t you dare leave any details out.”

 

 

Eponine really wished Gavroche’s Business Administration Counselor didn’t need to see him right at this moment.  Couldn’t it have waited until classes actually started?  Her car was crammed full of her belongings, and she groaned after realizing the amount of effort it took to successively remove one box.  Each step afforded Eponine another obstacle, because once she managed to balance it just right between her scrawny arms, it suddenly became impossible to reach the front door with a giant box completely obstructing her view.

“You’ll break your neck if you continue on like that,” an unfamiliar male voice warned.  To be fair, everyone at the university (apart from Gavroche) was unfamiliar to the young woman.  “Here.  Let me.”

Her arms fell lifelessly at her sides as the box was easily lifted out of her grasp.  She let out an exhausted sigh.  “Thank you so much.  I don’t know what convinced me to bring my entire book collection, but it’s a decision I regret now.  Maybe I should just get some rope and drag them down the halls.”

The boy turned to face Eponine.  He was very cute, in that boyish kind of way—freckles dotting the impossibly peach hue of his face.  She felt a bright blush spread from her neck to her cheeks and wondered if the boy could see it.  “Inventive,” he said.  “Or you could just get luggage with wheels.”

Eponine blushed further, only this time it was due to her inability to afford anything more luxurious than a few cheap, cardboard boxes and lots of heavy duty garbage bags for packing. “Yeah, but that’s not very adventurous, now is it?”  She hoped he’d let it go after that.  “I’m Eponine, by the way.”

“Of course,” the boy said, feeling a touch sheepish, “where are my manners?  I am Marius Pontmercy.  I would shake your hand, but I currently don’t have a free one available.  Anyway, I’m very excited to be going here.  I come from a long line of Pontmercys, but I am the first to go to a public college, so we’ll see how long it takes before my ancestors start turning in their graves.”

Eponine smirked.  “College girls better watch out for you, I see the makings of a rebel.”

“Not rebellious, just ready for a change.”  Marius shifted the box in his arms, ignoring the first part of Eponine’s statement because it made him slightly uncomfortable.  “So, where are we taking this thing?”

“Oh, right.  I’m in the A Tower.  Floor 5, I think.”

Marius’ beautiful eyes grew large.  “Me too!  What a coincidence, huh?  Come on, I’ll show you where it’s at.”

Eponine sighed as she trailed behind the man.  _I could kiss whoever was in charge of floor arrangements._

When they got to the A Tower elevator, it looked as if they could be standing there for ages.  Everyone and their mom (which could kind of be taken literally in this context) were shuffling to and from their respective dorm rooms.  As one of the elevators opened its doors, it filled up instantly, yet somehow the crowd outside of it seemed to increase in size.

Marius suddenly turned to Eponine.  “How averse are you to taking the stairs?”

“Have you asked _yourself_ that question?” Eponine responded fretfully.  “You’re the one holding the box full of books.  I mean, I’m sure another elevator will open up soon.”

“Eh.  I think I’m getting used to the added weight,” he said with a shrug.  “Besides, ‘soon’ could be more like 30 minutes and there’s no reason for us to waste our valuable time when we can be taking the less-traveled, yet highly-effective mode of vertical transportation called ‘stairs’.”

The more he talked, the more Eponine realized how much she liked this awkward boy.  “These ‘stairs’ you speak of intrigue me.  Lead the way, kind sir!”

They managed to make it all the way up to the 5th floor without collapsing.  By the time they took a third trip to Eponine’s car, the crowd had died down considerably but they still took the stairs.  It was fun.  A bit tiring near the end, but fun.  Eponine sorely hoped that this fantastic first day was a precursor for what the rest of the year would be like.

 

 

Jehan balanced one foot on his bedframe as he tried to tape string lights onto the ceiling.  He preferred the ambiance of Christmas tree lights (not the multicolor ones, he was classier than that) over harsh desk lamps.  Though many people have praised his petite frame (and long, flowing locks to boot), Jehan sometimes wished he was taller.  Like now, for instance.  His reach could only go so far and there was still more ceiling to cover.

There was a rustle and a click, which prompted the door to swing open.  Jehan stopped what he was doing to get his first glimpse of what he assumed was his roommate but did not move from his wobbly position on the bed.

The man staring back was tall, but lean.  His black, medium length hair hung around his face like a curtain, but Jehan could see the man’s eyes well enough to know that he was scowling.

 _Oh happy day_ , the young poet thought, _I get a grungy brute for a roommate_.  Nevertheless, Jehan tried (as always) to be optimistic about this new endeavor.  He jumped off the bed and stretched out a friendly hand.  “Hi.  I’m Jean Prouvaire.  But everyone calls me Jehan.”

The man scoffed and walked past the outstretched hand, tossing his suitcases on his new bed.  So, apparently he wasn’t much for words.  Jehan, however, did not let that deter him. 

“I like your Ramones shirt,” he added, unable to come up with anything else to say to this less than loquacious stranger.  “My dad got to see them play once.  He was a huge music buff.”

Still nothing.  Jehan silently watched the man grab handfuls of clothes from his suitcase and stuff them arbitrarily into his designated dresser.  It took Jehan almost an hour to do what this man had done in three minutes.

Jehan twisted a lock of hair between his fingers.  “I hope you don’t mind the lights I put up on my side of the room.  Well, actually I haven’t finished hanging them yet.  I can’t reach the parts of the ceiling that don’t have a high bed frame for me to stand on, so I may have to improvise on—”

The poet stopped talking as his taciturn roommate suddenly crossed the room and leapt onto Jehan’s bed, taping down sections of the string lights until they reached the other side of the wall.  When he finished, he wordlessly jumped down and resumed his chaotic system of unpacking.

Now Jehan was the one who was speechless.  _Did he just do something nice for me?_   Jehan didn’t even mind that the man stepped on his bedspread with his dirty boots; all he could think about was the act itself.  Did this mean there was hope for a symbiotic living situation? 

“Thanks,” Jehan said sweetly. 

The raven-haired man shoved his now empty suitcases under his bed before turning around to briefly nod at Jehan.  He grabbed his keys and shoved them in his coat pocket.  “I’m gonna head out.”

 _He spoke!_   Jehan wanted to squeal.  The little things often excited him.  In fact, he’d probably write about this encounter in his journal later that evening.  “Wait,” Jehan said, catching the man before he walked out the door.  “I don’t know your name?  Don’t you think I should?  I mean, we’re going to be living together.”

One side of the man’s mouth curved up into a smirk.  “It’s Montparnasse.  But my friends call me Monty.”

“So, what should _I_ call you?”

Monty’s smirk grew wider and without saying another word, he shut the door behind him.

 

 

It was the first floor meeting of the school year and already Enjolras could tell that his group of incoming freshman would cause him more grief than they were worth.  He applied for this job for the room and board benefits and because it would look great on his resume once he finally graduated.  The job description, however, did not mention anything about babysitting a bunch of kids who never lived on their own before.

He had it all planned out: they would start with an icebreaker so the residents could all get to know each other better, then he would go into the mandatory explanation of dorm rules and general safety, rounding the meeting off with current events and activities around campus.  It was meant to be fun yet informative, but somehow it all went horribly wrong.

“Alright guys, I’ll try not to keep you too long.  I’m sure many of you still need to finish unpacking so let’s get to it.  My name is Enjolras and I will be your residential advisor this year.  I’m a 4th year Poli Sci student with a minor in Economics.  I’m involved in multiple on-campus clubs, such as the Honor’s Student Association, Active Minds, Model UN, and Prism.  See me later for a complete listing, as well as joining information.  This is my first year being an RA so go easy on me.”  It was an off-handed comment that he later regretted.  “Anyway, that’s me in a nutshell, but now I want to get to know all of you. So, I thought we’d play a game of Two Truths and a Lie which is—”

“Ah snap!” one of the students energetically interrupted.  Enjolras didn’t learn names yet so he wasn’t sure who the young man was.  Whoever it was had not made a good first impression.  “I’m a beast at this game!  I’ll go first.  Oh, I’m Courfeyrac, for those of you I haven’t met yet.  Alright, two truths, one lie.  My grandpa’s a decorated war pilot, I’m a Gemini, and I sleep in the nude.”

There was an uncomfortable silence until a small, uncertain voice asked, “The last one?”  It was Joly.  Enjolras remembered Joly only because he knocked on Enjolras’ door earlier that day to ask really anal questions like how often the community showers were cleaned and if there were any reported incidents of food poisoning as a direct result of eating cafeteria food.  Enjolras couldn’t come up with a proper answer for any of them.

Courfeyrac showcased a cheeky grin, a look that Enjolras would become all too familiar with.  “Nope.”  He turned to glance at his roommate, who was growing considerably pale.  “Sorry Marius.  My grandpa wasn’t a war pilot.  He’s just a glorified drunk.”

Enjolras scrunched his eyebrows together.  “Uh…thank you, Courfeyrac.  That was an…interesting way to start things off.  Who wants to go next?”

A tall, pasty-faced man stood up, his leather jacket matching the color of his unwashed, stringy hair.  “If I go next, can I leave early?”

“No,” Enjolras replied pointedly.  The bored rebel sat down again.

“I’ll go,” a stunning woman with a deeply sun-kissed complexion declared.  Her eyes were large and inviting, thick, curled lashes batting in every direction and making more than a few men shift in their seats.  “Hi all, I’m Musichetta.  So, my three facts are that I was born in Colombia, I own more lingerie than day clothes, and I play the piano.”

Several jaws dropped simultaneously and then suddenly everyone was talking over each other with their guesses (and there might have been a few cat calls but it was hard to tell over the enthusiastic shouting).  Enjolras felt it was time to stop this before it got worse.  “Alright, alright.  I can see this is all very amusing to you, but I think the overall interpretation of this game has veered off course.  Why don’t we put this on hold for now and jump into—”

“Whoa, Enjy,” Courfeyrac remarked, interrupting Enjorlas for the second time in the span of a few minutes.  And Enjy?  Really?  They were already starting with the nicknames?  “You can’t leave us at that cliffhanger.  I mean, being a fond lover of music, I am genuinely curious if this beautifully-shaped woman is skilled at tickling those ivory keys.  Darling Musichetta, inquiring minds want to know: is your lie that you were born in Colombia?  For the love of all that’s holy, please say yes.”

Musichetta winked at Courfeyrac before shaking her head.  “I don’t…play piano, but I play bass guitar.”

Courfeyrac excitedly clapped his hands.  “Now the follow-up question: have you ever played bass in lingerie?”  Musichetta smirked.

Joly gulped nervously as his phone slipped from his grasp, making a loud thud against the floor.  He couldn’t take his eyes off of the bright-eyed, dark-haired vixen.  He certainly wasn’t the only one ogling Musichetta—you could almost smell the testosterone in the air—but at least he had the decency not to be vocal about it.

“That’s so hot.”

“Want to rub my head?  It’ll bring you good luck.”

“If you ever want to come over and hang out, I can easily ditch my roommate.”

“…and now all I see is lots of lace on a pretty girl with a bass…”

“Enough!” Enjolras thundered in that authoritative voice that was already so practiced.  He took a beat to calm his temper as the rest of the group settled into a gentle murmur.  “This activity was clearly a mistake.  The rest of you can mingle or flirt or whatever it is you’re doing on your own time, but right now we need to go over some important guidelines laid out in the Res Life Handbook.”

Enjolras breathed forcefully through his nostrils.  They were going to be trouble alright—and school hadn’t even started yet.

 

 

It became increasingly apparent over the next few weeks that although Enjolras was not particularly fond of these freshman—with their overactive sex drives and unusual ways of breaking free from the shackles their parents had fashioned since infancy—they at least were able to form easy bonds with one another.  They were in a new place, with new people, and embarking on new experiences, but they were adjusting surprisingly well. 

Jehan and Courfeyac (apart from the Thenardier siblings) were the only ones acquainted prior to move-in day since they went to the same high school.  Enjolras pitied Jehan for having to put up with Courfeyrac for four years—he’d only known the obnoxious young man for 17 days, but that was enough time to know he should keep one eye and one ear open whenever Courfeyrac was unaccounted for.  Just 17 days, and already the giggling trickster had put blue dye in Marius’ toothpaste, swiped Jehan’s towel while he was using the shower, and even vandalized Enjolras’ bulletin board of “Female Political Figures” by drawing large breasts on all of their portraits.  Enjolras didn’t have substantial proof of the last one, so of course he denied it—sneaky bastard.

Courfeyrac’s shenanigans aside, all of his residents got on rather famously.  Even that ridiculously gifted 13 year-old. 

Yeah, Enjolras had one of those.  He was informed of the situation before all the students arrived because the boy, Gavroche, was deemed a ‘special circumstance’.  The poor kid was probably called that his whole life, so Enjolras had a feeling he preferred to be treated the same as everyone else—and he fully intended to do just that.

Gavroche was a truly rare breed.  He had one of those photographic memories where he could literally remember everything he’d ever read or seen.  What made him more remarkable, Enjolras observed, was the fact that his social skills weren’t the least bit affected by his brain developmental capacity—as often was the case.  He was just a kid who wanted to have fun, while simultaneously creating a business portfolio (you know, in case he ever had plans to start his own company—which he did).

‘Special circumstances’ were also what allowed Gavroche to have his own complimentary dorm room (which was usually a privilege reserved for RAs).  As if the Housing & Dining staff wasn’t doing enough favors for Gavroche, they also placed his older sister, Eponine, on the same floor.  Seeing the two together, Enjolras had a hunch that this favor was more for Eponine’s benefit because she constantly hovered over him like a worried mother.

Eponine was not a child prodigy like her brother, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.  The semester had just started and already she was hitting the books and preparing study guides for future tests.  Enjolras had to admire that.  He also, however, often heard a constant stream of frustrated sighs coming from her room and wondered how much of a struggle this school year would actually be for her.

Now, because Eponine was not here on an academic scholarship, she had to share a room.  Her roommate was Musichetta, who had become a floor favorite after her self-assured and ‘highly inappropriate’ confession at the introductory floor meeting.  Enjolras couldn’t deny that the woman was beautiful.  It was some frightfully astounding combination of inner and outer beauty.  She had the look of a runway model, the brains of a physicist, and the heart of a lioness.  Musichetta wanted to be an engineer at NASA, which Enjolras thought was quite ambitious, but he encouraged it whole-heartedly.  She wanted to be friends with everyone, but if you said or did something hurtful she wasn’t afraid to ‘throw down’.  It was because of all this that Enjolras often overlooked how frequently she flaunted her sexual prowess.

Joly and Bossuet were roommates and, like many of the other men on their floor, they both harbored not-so-secret feelings for Musichetta.  As long as Enjolras didn’t have to fill out a roommate disagreement form, they could fight for her affections all they wanted.

Each freshman on floor 5A was unique in their own way, but that didn’t mean that Enjolras wanted to interact with them beyond his advising duties.

That is, until Grantaire showed up.

Enjolras received word from his Hall Director a few weeks into the start of semester that there would be an addition to his floor.  There was a vacancy, so it was only natural that someone would fill it eventually.  Although, Courfeyrac and Marius secretly hoped that they wouldn’t get a third roommate so they could have the large suite all to themselves.

They both (begrudgingly) made room for the new lodger and before long the man in question appeared.  He had the worst kind of scruff, uneven and nicked in some places.  His dark hair was curly and wild, and his overall appearance begged the impression of not giving a damn.

“You must be Grantaire,” Enjolras greeted professionally.  He was wary of being overly friendly with him, having already dealt with enough casual disrespect from Courfeyrac and the others.  They still called him Enjy, and he still hated it.  “I’m Enjolras, your new RA.  I hear you transferred from another tower because of a roommate conflict.”

“What?” Grantaire asked, slightly puzzled, until the light bulb clicked on.  “Oh, yeah.  That…situation.  I’d actually rather not talk about it, if that’s okay.  I just hope my new roomie is a bit more manageable.”

Enjolras softly chuckled to himself.  “It depends on your definition of ‘manageable’.   And you have two, in case they didn’t tell you.  You’re in a suite.”

Grantaire shrugged his shoulders.  “Alright.  Should be cool.” 

There was a formidable silence in which Enjolras inspected his new resident.  He took in the worn knapsack strapped on Grantaire’s back and the duffle bag he abandoned at his feet.  Was that it?  Was everything that he needed to make it through the whole school year in two measly pieces of luggage?  Perhaps he wasn’t a man who cared much for material possessions.

“You’re not a freshman, are you?” Enjolras asked, more intrigued than he intended to be.

“Do I look fresh out of high school?” Grantaire replied mockingly, a small smirk cracking his rough lips.  Enjolras slowly shook his head.  “Actually, there’s a good chance I’m older than you are.  I’ve been slaving away at this school for six years.  Although, I guess that’s what happens when you’re never fully satisfied with your major.”

“And are you satisfied now?”

The blonde’s question was obviously in regards to his current major, but Grantaire’s thoughts unavoidably strayed elsewhere.  “There’s definite potential.”

Enjolras felt a chill crawl up his neck, though the cause was entirely unknown to him.  “Well, I’ve probably taken up enough of your time.  The suite’s on your right, the last door at the end of the hall.  Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Will do,” Grantaire said with a lazy salute before retrieving his duffle and heading down the empty hall. 

Okay, so the new resident of 5A was a little odd and slightly homeless looking, but there was something that intrigued Enjolras about him.  Maybe it was the fact that Enjolras was no longer the only person that could ‘legally’ drink on his floor.  Maybe it was the honest way he presented himself that made Enjolras feel like he could hold a meaningful conversation with him.  Maybe…maybe…

Enjolras didn’t know what it was, but he made it a point to find out.


	2. I've Seen a Light, I've Seen it Burn So Bright

Studying for her Calc 1 quiz proved to be a rather daunting and fruitless task for Eponine.  Her productivity was at its best in the quiet of her own room—Musichetta was out on an adventure with one of her many ‘suitors’ so no one would’ve likely disturbed her there—but this particular distraction was worth the poor grade she would, in all likelihood, receive tomorrow morning.

“I give up,” Marius said after a loud huff.

Eponine hastily returned her attention to the textbook in her lap, hoping Marius remained oblivious to her loving gazes.  “Hmm?” she replied absently.  Pretending was a skill she had mastered.

“This whole ‘find the limit’ thing makes absolutely no sense.”

Eponine rolled her eyes and snatched the spiral notebook from his hands.  “You’re overthinking this problem.  It tells you to solve it algebraically.  Graphing won’t help you with this one.”

The freckle-faced boy gave her a stupefied look, and she tried (in vain) to stop the smile from forming on her lips.

Fate did have its limitations, and though they were both in Calculus 1 this semester, it was not the same class.  This did not prevent Marius from suggesting they study together, to which Eponine was immensely overjoyed.  It was quite amazing how natural they were in each other’s presence from the start, especially Marius.  Prior to college, Marius’ prestigious upbringing was carefully monitored and left little time for social frivolities. If he hadn’t abandoned that lifestyle, Marius’ grandfather surely would have forbidden his friendship with Eponine as it was well known that her family had a shady past, present, and (she anticipated) no promise for the future.  Needless to say, Marius did not regret his decision to venture out on his own.

So here they were, Eponine and Gavroche having (thankfully) escaped that life, and Marius making his own rules for a change.  They just happened to be in the right place at the right time so fate could take its course.

Except…something didn’t fit quite right.  Eponine had been spending so much time with Marius over the last month and a half: grabbing lunch at the quad in between classes, sharing notes in the living room of Marius’ suite, throwing popcorn at the obnoxiously loud tweens at the $3 cinema.  It would’ve all been terribly romantic if Marius didn’t still look at her as a friend.

He never touched her beyond casual pats on the back or enthusiastic hugs.  She wanted an embrace, warm and lingering, wanted it to feel as if he would never let her go.  Was he really that blind to what was clearly right in front of him?

“Alright,” Eponine finally said, starting from scratch in his notebook.  “To find the limit when x is greater than 2, you have to substitute 2 into the expression.”

Marius rubbed his temples.  “I did that earlier and it just gave me 0 over 0.”

“Exactly!” she exclaimed, frantically adding more numbers and x’s to the equation.  “That means that x-2 is a factor, and when you divide that out of the equation—top and bottom—the new expression should give you a more definable solution when you plug in 2 again.”

Marius took back his homework and did the necessary calculations.  “Good grief, ‘Ponine.  You made it look so easy—which, of course, it isn’t.  Are you some sort of math wizard?”

Eponine laughed almost bitterly.  “Not even.  You must be thinking of my bro.  Little Gav would’ve looked at that problem and told you it was -5/27 without even picking up a pencil.  I’m lucky to know what I know because my parents were lazy with their bookkeeping and, well, someone had to do it.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” he said with a light elbow jab—another ‘friendly’ form of contact that she would add to her list.  “Gavroche may be a certified genius, but he wouldn’t have been able to explain that problem half as well as you did.  You know me, I need layman’s terms.   He’d probably use some mathematical jargon that would only serve to increase my boundless confusion.”

Eponine smiled bashfully.  Why did he have to be so sweet?  “Yeah, Gav would make a crappy teacher.”

They continued chatting and goofing around, both parties equally glad for the distraction (though, for different reasons).  A considerable amount of time elapsed before Grantaire and Courfeyrac walked in.  Upon seeing them, Marius stopped socializing and got back to work.

“Not getting much studying done, eh?” Courfeyrac said with a playful wink.

“Not inebriated beyond recognition, eh?” Marius mimicked, minus the wink.

This distracted Courfeyrac enough to forget about teasing Marius and Eponine’s not-so-platonic friendship.  He sighed dramatically.  “The ad was misleading.  The only free drinks at this party came in little champagne flutes, which were, get this, actually filled with champagne!  Who drinks that stuff on any other day besides New Year’s?”

“Alcoholics who aren’t picky?” Grantaire sarcastically suggested.  “And you could make mimosas, which, in case you didn’t know, go great with French toast.”

“Can it, R!  You’re supposed to be on my side here.”

Grantaire put his hands up defensively before backing into his bedroom.

Marius tut-tutted in a way that could not have been ignored.  There was a lot he didn’t understand about his hedonistic roommates.  Part of it was probably due to his private school education coupled with the frequent number of aristocratic alumni dinners that he was forced to attend.  Still, the drinking and the flirtatious touching were two aspects of this atypical lifestyle that were not appealing to him.

Courfeyrac, in response to Marius’ vociferous tut-tutting, put his hands on his hips and conjured up all the sass he could muster.  “You know, Mr. Let-me-put-on-my-monocle-so-I-could-turn-my-nose-up-at-you-properly Pontmercy, one of these days we are gonna get you good and drunk, and I can definitely picture you as one of those lampshade-wearing types who instinctively decides to kiss everyone in the room.  And we will record it.”

“Is that supposed to be an argument in favor of drinking?” Marius asked rhetorically.  “If so, you may want to revise your techniques on persuasion, my friend.”

“Please.  I am the master of persuasion.  How do you think I get so much action?  I don’t just leave it up to my rugged good looks. ”  There was a soft knock at the door and—as the unofficial suite rule stated that whoever was closest to the door must answer it—Courfeyrac went to greet their guest.  “Ah, Jehan!  Might I persuade you to come inside for a moment?”

As the petite boy did so, Courfeyrac shot his roommate a pointed look.

“I can’t stay long,” Jehan said quietly.  “I just thought you might want to borrow these.  You mentioned them last week and I forgot until now that I brought these with me.”

Courfeyrac took the CDs from his outstretched hand, eyes close to bulging out of their sockets.  “This is…you mean, all this time you’ve had…gah, I could kiss you right now.”  Jehan blushed scarlet.

“Care to enlighten us?” Eponine chimed in from the corner.  Courfeyrac wasted no time in running over to the study buddies, jumping over the coffee table in the process, before shoving one of the albums a little too close to Eponine’s face.  “Harry and the Potters?”

Courfeyrac nodded enthusiastically.  “Don’t you remember that conversation we had in the common room?  We talked about how much I look like Harry—”

“ _You_  talked about how you  _thought_  you looked like Harry,” Marius interceded.

“And,” Courfeyrac continued, “I said that being a mega Potterhead, Harry and the Potters was on my list of albums to download.”

Jehan played with the end of his long braid.  “Yeah, so I thought this might be easier than going on youtube.”

Courfeyrac turned back to the slight ginger and stared at him reproachfully, arms folding across his chest.  “Please don’t tell me you’ve had these since high school.”  Jehan tucked his chin into his sweater.  “So, I could’ve been jamming out to ‘Stick it to Dolores’ in my car for the last four years?  I feel betrayed, Jehan.”

The little poet found his courage then.  “Now hold on a second, that’s not fair!  Just because we went to the same school, it does not mean that I am psychic.  You never talked to me!  You had your own circle of friends, so there was no way for me to know or discover that we shared the same fondness for wizarding schools and quidditch.”

A breath of silence passed as Courfeyrac’s teasing look transformed into something else.  Eponine and Marius watched the exchange intently, unbeknownst to them that a third member joined in their viewing curiosity.

“You’re right,” Courfeyrac finally replied, much more subdued than he was before.  “I think this is the longest we’ve spoken to each other in four years.  You were always so quiet—even when we did group projects together—I assumed you just didn’t want to talk to me.”

Jehan released a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding in.  “Well…your assumption was inaccurate.”

Courfeyrac smiled a little, almost nervously—which is not a look you often see on the man.  “We can talk now.  I’m kinda curious about your opinion on the theme of destiny vs. choice.”

“I’ve got Wizard’s Chess in my room,” Jehan declared, hoping that was a subtle enough invite.  Courfeyrac didn’t need to be told twice.  He grabbed his phone and keys from the table and followed the shorter boy out the door.  “And I personally think destiny is based on the choices you make.  For example when Harry…”

The room was quiet again once the door had closed behind the pair.  There was an awkward tension that lingered in their absence, Marius and Eponine still at a loss for words.

“Huh,” Grantaire puffed out, leaning against the door frame to his bedroom.  The two on the couch simultaneously jumped.  “Is anyone else as surprised as I am that they didn’t start making out in front of us?”

 

———

 

It took an unnatural amount of effort for Grantaire to slink out of bed, throw on the wrinkled jeans bunched in the corner, and sluggishly make his way to the elevator.

He was actually going to class.  He didn’t want to go to class, but he intended to show up to this one.  And who did he owe this debt of gratitude (insert obvious sarcasm here)?

Cosette.

That sneaky little snake had known Grantaire far too long, he decided.  She could always push the right buttons or offer the most desirable incentives when striking up a bargain.  Like right now.  She wanted him to finally get off his ass and graduate.  He wanted access to the rooftop, which she happened to have a key for.  This building had the best bird’s eye view of the city and he desperately wanted to paint it.

It was a win-win situation really. 

Getting up was the hard part.  Now all he had to do was get there, find a computer in the back of the room and continue where he left off in his wonderful dream about a certain blonde and his permanently angry eyebrows.

He wished he could take Enjolras up to the rooftop.  Then they could watch the sun set behind the lake, reminisce about a long forgotten youth, and maybe, just maybe, those eyebrows wouldn’t be so angry anymore.  That’s really all Grantaire wanted: for Enjolras to liberate his burdens, to find some form of comfort in Grantaire’s company.

But they didn’t live in a world full of gold-wielding rainbows or unicorns, and so Grantaire did what he did best.  He hardened himself to believe that wishing was for dreamers and fools.

Grantaire stuck in his ear buds after pushing the down button for the elevator, drowning his cynical thoughts in a clash of repeated hat cymbals and heavy bass notes.  The music was so loud that he didn’t notice someone creep up next to him until they were already in the midst of asking a question.

“Shit,” he said, removing his ear buds and drinking in the tall, slender man next to him.  It was starting to become a nasty habit of his, swearing whenever he saw Enjolras.  “Sorry, did you say something?”

Enjolras was scrutinizing him curiously.  It made Grantaire feel naked, and he wasn’t entirely sure if that was a good or bad thing.  “I just asked if you were planning an actually going to class today.  I’ve never seen you leave this building with your backpack before.”

“Are you implying that I’m a slacker?” Grantaire asked with an artful eye raise.

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” the blonde replied, a slight accusation in his tone.  “I merely made an observation.  That bag has seen little more than the inside of your suite since you moved in.”

An arrow lit up, signaling that the elevator doors were about to open.  “There’s no need to get testy.”  Grantaire chuckled as he followed Enjolras into the elevator.  “Besides, you’re not wrong.  I don’t go often.  You see, I’ve got this routine that’s worked out rather nicely for me: I buy the cheapest, used textbook I can find, go to first day to pick up the syllabus, and then I show up to test dates and turn in reports.  It’s a pretty solid schedule, if I do say so myself.”

Enjolras scoffed and shook his head.  “You don’t think your professor’s lectures hold any value to your learning?”

“I’ve always thought of professors as walking cliffnotes.  They reword material in the chapters for those who lack basic reading comprehension skills and then provide visual examples for those who are not auditory learners.  If, for any reason, they’re adding pertinent information that is not explicitly or implicitly in the textbooks then they should’ve picked a different book.”

“Hmm,” Enjolras pondered, stepping out into the crisp autumn air with his sleepy-eyed floormate.  “I see your point, but I still think there is something to be learned from expert tutelage.  Being 4th and 6th year students, we’re both well into our major-specific classes, and from my experience, class debates led by my Poly Sci professors are what really give the best insight on how certain forms of government handle the relevant issues.  By the way, what building are you going to?”

“I have computer lab in Grant Hall.”

Enjolras thought about its location before saying, “That’s not far from where I’m headed.  I’ll walk with you…if you don’t mind.”

Mind?  In what universe would Grantaire mind spending time with Enjolras for longer than two minutes?  “I could use the company.  And, to invalidate your previous statement, students are the ones actually participating in the debates.  Professors only pose a topic.  Of course, I completely encourage open conversation, but all of this could be done in small study groups or at club meetings.  In short, though it’s probably too late for that, I just don’t think we need classrooms; instead, testing halls and maybe some extra private rooms in the library.”

“You may actually win this one,” Enjolras said, his brow furrowing as his brain searched for a counter-argument, “purely on the basis that I cannot come up with an example that refutes.  But I’m still of the opinion that you’re oversimplifying the effectiveness of a college education.  College is about everything that you experience in the four (or more) years you commit yourself to a degree or trade.  It’s about living on your own, meeting with your counselor to ensure you’re doing what you can to make your resume stand out, making mistakes and learning from them, as well as attending academic lectures.  Depending on your future career, you may end up having to sit in business seminars or training sessions; which is essentially the same classroom concept.  It’s how the system has been running for hundreds of years, and it’s worked well enough so far.”

Grantaire screwed up his mouth.  “I can definitely say I’ve learned a lot outside of the classroom.  This year, especially.  I think you’re just about the only one willing to argue with me on these trivial matters.  Would it be strange if I said I kind of enjoy it?”

“No,” Enjolras replied with a small smile, if you could even call it that.  “I know exactly what you mean.”

 

———-

 

Joly burst through the suite door dragging a barely conscious Marius behind him.  “Hey guys, I think something’s wrong with this one.  He’s been sitting in the lobby all spacey since before I left for class.  It looks like he’s been drugged?  Do you think someone drugged him?  Gasp!  Courf, did you—”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, Joly,” the confirmed prankster quickly said, denying any illegal use or distribution of drugs.  “Besides, if he’s been sitting there for that long and still smiling, it’s probably not drugs.  That smile’s kinda wigging me out though.  Hey, Marius?  Marius!  Can you hear me?”

The boy nodded his head but didn’t wipe the dreamy look off his face.

“Has he ever slept with his eyes open before?” Joly asked, clearly out of medical opinions.  “Because it looks like he’s dreaming.  It seems to be a very good dream, too.”

Courfeyrac shook his head violently.  “Shit, man, don’t say shit like that!  Now I’m going to have very real fears of Marius hovering over my bed and smiling.”

Grantaire, who had been scarfing down goldfish and quietly observing this whole situation from his spot on the couch, began to laugh.  “Are you guys serious?  You don’t recognize that look at all?  You’ve never locked yourself in a semi-permanent state of bliss, full of wildly unrealistic fantasies because of something that caught your eye and made your heart go pitter-patter?”

Joly suddenly beamed brightly.  “Ooh!  Is he in love?”  The satisfactory smile from Grantaire was enough of an affirmation.  “How exciting!  Marius deserves a little love in his life.  I hope you picked a good one.”

“I always knew this day would come,” Courfeyrac said, affectionately clasping his roommate around the shoulder.  “They grow up so fast, don’t they, R?”

“For the last time, Courf, we are not an old married couple.  I won’t play house with you.”  Grantaire shoved a handful of crackers in his mouth.

Courfeyrac ignored him.  “Alright, I want details.  First of all, boy or girl?  I only ask because you’ve never once made a move on Eponine, which was always a bit surprising to me.  So?”

Marius was shocked he found his voice at all, let alone able to comprehend the conversation going on around him.  “A woman.  A beautiful woman.”

“Where’d you meet her?” Joly piped in, eager for the juicy details as well.

Marius brought himself back to the memory and smiled wider.  “In the elevator.  I sneezed and she said ‘quite a honker you got there’.”

“Huh.  Cute, I guess?  I mean, to each his own.”  Courfeyrac plopped down next to Grantaire and pried the goldfish box from his fingers.  “At least this means she lives in our tower.  What does she look like?  Maybe we know her.”

Marius was starry-eyed and off in his own world, but still managed to utter out a brief description of this exceptional woman.  ”Eyes like the deepest ocean, hair like stalks of golden wheat blowing in the breeze, and a voice as rich and melodic as a song bird’s.”

Courfeyrac scratched his head.  ”Um…Marius, I think you just described a Disney princess.  Unless Cinderella decided to ditch the Prince and earn a degree—which would be freaking awesome—I don’t know how I can help you out.”

“Yeah, that descriptor is not enough for any of us to go by,” Grantaire said apologetically, until an idea struck him—an idea that could turn into an adventure that might also have serious repercussions but still put a devilish smile on his face.  “But there is someone who holds the key to aid this little mission, and I do mean that quite literally.”


	3. There's Pain in Forgetting What You Know

“Alright, let’s run the plan one more time.”

“Really Courf?” Jehan asked, exasperation lacing his mellifluous voice.  “We’ve been over this several times.  I think we got it.”

The hysterical brunette threw up his hands.  “Well, if you’re so sure, why did our little genius have so many questions?”

“Whoa, C-dawg,” Gavroche responded on the defense.  “I never questioned  _how_  this plan worked; I merely had objections regarding its relevance.  All you had to do was get me to a computer that has access to the main frame so I can bypass security codes and hack into the dorm roster.  Once I have names, I could easily link each of them to photos from popular social networking sites and Marius would just have to scroll through until he found her.”

Grantaire smirked and ruffled the 13 year-old’s hair—which earned him a reproachful scowl.  “I like the way you think, Gav.”

Courfeyrac pouted, slightly peeved that he seemed to be the only one excited about this plan. He half-considered calling the whole thing off.  “Yeah, well, that’s boring…and illegal.  Eponine would have our heads if she found out we let you do that.”

Bossuet solemnly nodded in agreement.  “That girl’s wrath is scary.  You guys overheard the heat I got after bringing Gav to that poker tournament.”  Gav just smiled knowingly.

“In her defense,” Jehan said, “that was pretty irresponsible.”

“What?” Bossuet asked, still not seeing how he was in the wrong.  “It should’ve been foolproof!  Little Gav can count cards better than anyone I’ve ever seen.  He was supposed to be my lucky charm.  How was I to know that the table was full of sticky-fingered mobsters?”

Joly sympathetically patted his roommate’s shoulder.  “That’s why we agreed, no more late night poker games strategically located in back alleys of the undeveloped part of town.”

Bossuet looked down at his feet self-consciously.

“We’re getting off topic!” Courfeyrac shouted anxiously.  “We only have an hour and a half till Marius gets back from class, and we all know he’ll try to stop this unless it’s already been done.  So let’s briefly review the plan—which will not be altered in any way, shape, or form—and move out.  Grantaire, what’s your m.o.?”

With a bored sigh—which wasn’t remotely authentic, for reasons that will be stated later—Grantaire replied, “Get the keys from Enjolras and distract him long enough so that he doesn’t realize they’re gone.”

“Right.  At which point Joly will take the keys and key up Gav, Bossuet, Jehan and myself to floors 3, 4, 6, and 7, respectively.  Although, I still don’t understand why I wasn’t chosen as key master.”

Jehan shrugged.  “He’s training to become a nurse.  Nurses are responsible people.”  Joly smiled gleefully at that.

“Whatever,” Courfeyrac said, waving that off.  “So, on your floor, you are to knock on every door and take pictures with your phone/camera of all females with blonde hair.  If they question it, just say you’re doing a social experiment for your psych class or some bullshit like that.  Once your floor is clear, text Joly and he’ll move you to the next unoccupied floor.  Got it?”

There were several nods followed by even less verbal agreements.

“Come on, guys!  Where’s the enthusiasm?  This is for Marius!  Our mission tonight might actually help him get laid this year!”

Finally, the mood changed.

“He is a bit of a stiff.”

“You really should’ve seen his starry-eyed look that day.”

“Studies have shown that sex on a weekly basis increases your levels of immunoglobulin which protects against colds and infections.  It also reduces stress.  Marius looks stressed a lot.”

“That was a bit weird, Gav,” Courfeyrac said.  His playful smile soon returned.  “But you’ve got the right idea.  Alright, hands in.  Operation Not Your Average Cinderella is now in effect.”

 

———- 

 

Let’s make one thing perfectly clear.  Grantaire knew exactly what he was doing.  It was his idea to use Enjolras’ keys.  It was his volunteered services that would distract Enjolras during the ‘mission’.  And it was definitely his intent to make the best use of this alone time with Enjolras.

The others didn’t know about his friendship with Cosette—she was always insistent on hanging out elsewhere because she still didn’t approve of his little crush.  She preferred to call it an ‘unhealthy obsession’.  So, they didn’t know he had connections with another RA.  They also didn’t know how easily she would hand her keys over for the pursuit of ‘puppy love’.  And they would, thankfully, continue to remain in the dark because she had a study group thing in the library tonight so there was no risk of her encountering any of them.

Grantaire tried really hard to hide his victory smile as he casually walked down to Enjolras’ room—the others quietly trailing behind him—and was surprised to find the door open.  He leaned against the doorway and tilted his head at the man sitting on his bed, legs folded under him while papers and books were strewn about unsystematically.

“I’m confused by this situation,” Grantaire finally said after several seconds of silent observation.  Enjolras only acknowledged the other man’s presence by raising his eyebrows.  “The fact that your door is wide open expresses a willingness to engage in friendly conversation with your residents, but the piles of notes and continued mutterings about fiscal year deficits makes me think you’ve got an Econ test that requires your undivided attention.”

Enjolras inhaled deeply, still unable to look away from his notes.  “It’s an open-door policy in my contract.”

“See, now that makes sense,” Grantaire said, walking into his RA’s room—uninvited.  This is what finally forces Enjolras to look up. “You know, leaving your door open puts you at risk for suffering one of Courfeyrac’s pranks or, worse yet, some other resident coming to talk about their  _feelings_.”

Enjolras’ tired expression hinted that he wasn’t in the mood for this, as much as he often liked his previous conversations with Grantaire.  “I sincerely hope that’s not what you’ve come here to do.”

Grantaire leaned his hand on Enjolras’ desk, fingers slowly curling around the large ring of keys placed there.  “Come on, Enjolras.  You do remember who you’re talking to right?”  He waited for the blonde to continue thumbing through one of his textbooks before making a fist around the keys and shoving them behind his back.  “I live the American Dream.  I don’t share my feelings—rather I bottle them up until they start to fester and eat away at my insides and then finally, once copious amounts of liquor no longer aid in suppressing them, I run around naked and smash things until I pass out from exhaustion.”

Enjolras’ face slowly contorted into a look of utter bewilderment during the entirety of Grantaire’s self-assessment.  “That’s disturbingly specific for an interpretation of the American Dream.  You really should stop admitting things about yourself so freely.  It’s not doing you any favors.”

“It got you to stop studying,” the dark-haired man said with a smirk.  He had been casually slinking his way back to the doorway.  “That was kind of my endgame all along.  Now, I’m sure you’ve gone over your notes a thousand times already.  You need to take a break.  In fact, I got a movie I think you’ll actually enjoy.”

There was a subtle (maybe not-so-subtle) arm stretch as Grantaire reached behind the wall and placed the key ring into Joly’s open palm—though the target was too absorbed in reorginizing the piles of papers on his bed.  The rest of the gang hopped into the waiting elevator moments later.

Grantaire’s words made the blonde smirk uncharacteristically.  “You suspect me to believe that even though we disagree on virtually everything, there is a movie in existence that would not be a source of conflict between us?”

“I never said that.  In fact, I’m fairly confident that if we were to sit down and watch this movie together—say, right now—we’d be stuck in a debate for the rest of the evening.  Now tell me that doesn’t sound exciting.”

It was strange.  Enjolras wasn’t really smiling anymore, and it wasn’t because he didn’t want to watch this movie with Grantaire.  It was because he did; he really did.  This man had an uncanny way of getting Enjolras to bend to his will more than anyone else in his life—and it scared him.  Scary, yet somehow exhilarating.  Grantaire was like a shot of adrenaline to him.  In his presence, Enjolras felt more alive than ever before, wondering how he’d gone through most of his life without this feeling.  How was he to refuse?

The soft smile he previously displayed returned.  “Go grab it before I change my mind.”

 

———-

 

“Wait, you’re a freshman?  Are you sure?”

Gavroche fought the urge to roll his eyes or produce some cutting remark.  His floormates had easily accepted him as one of their own—though he still put up with the occasional nicknames and ill-fated attempts at giving him a piggy back ride—but the rest of the students (and sometimes, professors) he encountered on a daily basis continued to use that cringe-worthy, condescending tone.

“The Admissions Office will confirm that I am,” he said dryly.  “So, can I take your picture or what?”

The stereotypical blonde bit her lip.  “Um, sure, I guess.  Just make sure you give me tagging approval before you post it on Facebook or something.  I don’t want everyone seeing it unless it’s flattering.”

Gavroche really hoped this wasn’t the girl Marius fell head over heels for.  He took the photo with his iPhone—an item he won at a trivia contest Eponine took him to once—and politely nodded his thanks before hightailing it out of there.  All the other rooms on the 8th floor were checked and he was just about to text Joly when the elevator doors opened.

The young woman who stepped out eyed him curiously.  “Hi.  Are you lost?  Or just visiting a sibling?”

“What?”  Then it dawned on him and, to be honest, he really should’ve known what she was implying.  “Oh, you mean because most college students have already outgrown this heightened stage of puberty.”  He didn’t mean to be snarky, but it was out before he could stop it.

She laughed, which he hadn’t expected.  “Well, that and the fact that you don’t live on this floor.  I’m the RA and I think I’d remember you.  If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?”

Here we go.  “I’m presently 13, going on 25.”

“Wait a minute, are you that really smart kid that lives on Grantaire’s floor?”

Another unexpected response.  “You know R?”

“You could say I’m a bit partial to him,” she said, her voice humming sweetly.  She was very pretty—and blonde, so he’d definitely have to snap a photo of her before he left.  “Gavroche, right?”

“You either have a fantastic memory”—which Gav could easily relate to—“or R likes me more than he’s let on.”

The woman’s almond-shaped eyes doubled in size.  “Are you kidding?  He talks about you all the time!  He never had a brother, but always wanted one.  I think he secretly wants to adopt you.”

Gavroche felt a swelling sense of pride at these words.  And then he felt ashamed for trying to push Grantaire away whenever he messed up his hair or tried to tackle him to the ground because now he saw it for what it really was—brotherly affection.  The more he thought about it, the more Gavroche realized that he’d kind of like having a brother too.  “What’s your name?”

She smiled—an action that seemed to come naturally to her.  “Cosette.”

“Would it be alright if I took your picture?” he asked, in a much kinder tone than he used on many of the other candidates.  She looked skeptical so he pressed on.  “I’m doing this study that detects facial expressions when subjects convey specific emotions.  My job is to collect data from females.  That’s why I’ve been visiting the different floors in our dorm.”

“Sounds neat.  Go right ahead.  Any particular emotion you want me to show?  I have a very colorful mind so I can summon up extremes if you want.”

Gavroche decided right then and there that he was really quite clever and everyone should praise him for it.  “Have you ever been in love?”

Cosette’s delicate eyebrows shot up.  “Excuse me?”

“It’s the one we’ve been struggling to accurately represent.  It doesn’t have to be a boyfriend or anything like that, but just think about something or someone that came into your life and made you feel whole.  Complete.”

The young blonde carefully contemplated this concept, and then a light bulb turned on and her face was glowing, cheeks tinted rouge.  Her eyes were expressively euphoric and a soft smile grazed her full lips.

He quickly snapped the picture without her noticing and admired his handiwork. 

“So, how many floors did you visit already?” she asked, once she realized he was done.

Gavroche came up with a story that wouldn’t lead her to suspect any details of the actual mission.  “Um, only two so far.  You kinda just have to ride the elevator until someone else can key you in.”

Cosette shrugged.  “I’m sure if you asked your RA they wouldn’t mind taking you on their floor rounds.  Scratch that.  I just remembered who your RA was.”

“Enjolras,” they said in unison.

 

———-

 

Forty-seven minutes into the movie, Enjolras let out a derisive snort that Grantaire had, in all honesty, been impatiently awaiting.

“Did I miss something funny?” Grantaire prompted.

The blonde was uncharacteristically brief in his reply.  “Not particularly.”

“Don’t disappoint me now, Enjolras.  I can tell your itching to make some snide remark about the movie’s inaccuracies.”

This little nudge of encouragement was all Enjolras needed to finally release the anxious breath he’d been holding in.  “It just…I mean, they wouldn’t…this is quite possibly the worst portrayal of liberals that I’ve ever seen!  And I say this after my friend, Bahorel, forced me to watch  _Demolition Man_  with him.”

Grantaire leaned back against the wall with a satisfied smirk.  “See, I knew you’d go that route.  Let me guess, you think these grad students are painted in an unjustly secular light, making the audience side with their comically-exaggerated efforts as protagonists while ultimately refusing to take their beliefs seriously.  Am I warm?”

“Lukewarm at best,” Enjolras replied, turning down the volume on the tv—because at this point the rest of the movie is irrelevant and Enjolras needs to think clearly if he’s going to win this argument.  “Although, ‘secular’ is definitely an appropriate word to use.  Not all liberals have the same views these elitists took.  They act as if their way is the only way, hence the senseless murder.  That’s what bothers me the most about this movie.  Amidst the flux of social issues, liberals are founded on the fact that they want more government—to regulate economic statistics and appropriate justice when laws are broken.  These people are serving arsenic to anyone with a conflicting viewpoint, and I don’t believe that bullshit about how they could be ridding the world of the next Hitler.  They’re not the justice system and they do not get to punish others for their own selfish reasons.”

The brunette shook his head emphatically.  “You’re completely missing the point here, though.  It’s not an attack against left wing politics, or any other party for that matter.  You’re not supposed to ‘side’ with idealistic college grads or the sexist pig or the hostile racist.  This movie represents a pervasiveness toward believing your opinion is an irrefutable truth, thus feeling obligated to silence those who disagree.  This is an inherent theme our society has fallen into dating back to the crucifixion of Christ.”

Enjolras groaned.  “Please do not bring Christianity into this.”

“It’s called The Last Supper!” Grantaire bellowed.  “You can’t ‘not’ mention it when the connection is clearly there.  I’m not trying to be preachy and I am definitely not a devout Christian—I’ve committed enough sins in my life to have a room reserved in hell.  All I’m saying is that this movie is genius because it blatantly slaps us in the face, hinting at the very real probability that we will NEVER live in a Utopian society because our own freedoms depend on the freedoms of everyone else, including our enemies.  As long as we continue to limit those freedoms of our counterparts—and trust me, we ALWAYS will—there will always be limitations to an individual’s freedom.  It’s a vicious cycle that we can’t escape.  Freedom might as well not exist in our dictionary.”

A palpable uneasiness enveloped the small room following Grantaire’s (potentially rehearsed) harsh rhetoric.  There was no quick-witted reply from Enjolras, not yet at least.  Grantaire didn’t know what to make of that, the cold and calculating blonde always liked to have the last word.  He seemed to be thinking, yet entirely uncomfortable with his own thoughts. 

Enjolras cleared his throat.  “That was…uh…that was incredibly depressing.”  He stopped the movie, its description as a ‘dark comedy’ now lost on him as he couldn’t focus on anything but Grantaire’s ‘no hope for humanity’ analysis.  “I mean, I knew you were a cynic, but I never realized how truly disappointed you were with the rest of the world.”

“That’s why I don’t like to get into politics much,” he said with a despondent shrug.  “I see the greed of our business leaders and the corruption of our government officials, I understand why you lash out against it.  But they’ve gradually stripped away our freedoms to the point where we can’t even fight it anymore.  What’s the point, if they’re just gonna knock us back down again.”

“You think I don’t see that as well?  My fath—”  Enjolras stopped himself before his passionate outcry revealed more than he was willing to reveal.  For now.  Maybe one day Grantaire would understand it all, if he could trust him.  “My father and I haven’t spoken since I left for college.  He tried to swing me to his way of thinking, tried to make me his little puppet.  The  _paradigm of sustained leadership_ , he called me.  But my input and rational thoughts were ‘unnecessary’, even ‘unsuitable’.  I didn’t agree with his politics, so I went to find my own.”

Another sobering topic between them.  It had never been like this before, never got so personal.  Grantaire wanted to comfort Enjolras, fantasized even about letting their fingers casually intertwine or nuzzling the man’s neck while whispering words of gentle praise.  But the mere thought of touching this fine marble statue was incomprehensible.  Not even a friendly hand on his shoulder seemed permissible in Grantaire’s eyes.  The only comfort this cynical 24 year-old could provide was his go-to sardonic humor.  “On the bright side, you’re now at least one tier above those Iowa grad students because you didn’t murder your father for disagreeing with you.  Or me, for that matter.  I really should thank you for that.”

It’s now become a recurring theme for Enjolras to have no words in Grantaire’s presence.  It’s unprecedented, to be sure.  No one’s ever been able to surprise him or make him second guess himself in a debate of wits.  Grantaire is like a new species of man that Enjolras wants to study and dissect and cling to…no, maybe not the last one.  He should’ve been upset that Grantaire made a joke after Enjolras opened his heart about his father—the irony is not lost on him that this type of soul-baring conversation was what he objected to from the beginning.  But, then again, he wasn’t entirely comfortable sharing this information and maybe Grantaire saw that.  Maybe he was just trying to remind Enjolras that they didn’t have to take life too seriously if they didn’t want to.

And it worked, because the blonde smiled and ran a somewhat shaky hand through his long, curly hair.  “I think it’s fair to assume that after we both admitted how much we enjoy sparring like this, I have no intention to poison your bourbon.”

“I’m touched,” Grantaire said, clutching at his heart.  “This is a crucial step on the path to becoming friends.”

Enjolras looked down, wondering if the sudden warmth in his face was noticeable.  “No.  I think we’re already there.”

 

\------

 

Courfeyrac and Jehan were arguing again.  They’re back and forth like that; either the world is sunshine and rainbows and they’re speaking in their own special language that no one else gets (or tolerates, for that matter), or they’re at each other’s throats like jealous lovers who don’t understand one another but still desperately want to be together.  They’re not, by the way, together.  The ever-awkward ‘Harry and the Potters’ debacle should have been a precursor for their eventual relationship, but Jehan was (and still is) too shy to admit the truth of his 4 year-long crush and Courfeyrac was never one to commit—“I’ll call you” became a repetitious lie with all of his sexual encounters and the taunting slope of Jehan’s neck was simply not worth losing late nights of silly conversation and stupidly sweet poetry.  They were best friends that both wanted and were terrified of something more.

“Marius isn’t the only one searching for love, you know,” Courfeyrac said, trailing an irritated Jehan back to the suite.  Marius just got back from class and tried to control his erratic breathing as Joly talked him into believing that this was ‘a really good plan’ and ‘she’ll never have to know about it’.  He did, however, hazard a few glares in Courfeyrac’s direction because a plan of this caliber seemed right up his alley and it’s easy to blame him for it.  Perfect.  Now Courfeyrac had two people mad at him.

Jehan made a scoffing noise that didn’t go well with the delicate features of his face.  “And you think you’ve found it in room 703?”

“Not necessarily.  But I did find something—or rather, someone—to keep me entertained this Thursday night.”  Egging on the spritely-looking redhead—clad in paisley capris and a t-shirt that said Don’t F%#k with Mama Nature—was not a smart idea but Courfeyrac was tired of having to constantly explain his actions to him.

“See, that’s exactly my point,” Jehan spat bitterly, his long plait falling on his shoulder in the process.  “You’re not looking for love, you’re just scoping out the next fling.  When you wake up on Friday morning you’ll give them you’re trademark wink, make promises to get together again, and then dodge their phone calls until they finally get the hint that you’re not interested.”

Joly’s timid voice broke in.  “Can you guys please take this outside or something?  Actually, hand me your phones first.  I’m trying to get Marius to scroll through the photos.”

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes, ignoring the fact that anyone else was in the room. “What, you don’t think that if I did fall in love that I could try a monogamous relationship?”

“The fact that you had to include the word ‘try’ means that even you doubt that will actually happen.”  The sharp, jagged anger in Jehan’s tone thawed and was replaced with perceptive sadness.  “I just think you’re so uncomfortable with the concept of opening your heart to someone because you assume they’ll be exactly like you and never call back and you’ve seen enough of the world to know that a broken heart isn’t easy to mend.  But you can’t just give up on it, Courfeyrac.”

This argument was turning into a therapy session and Courfeyrac had to draw the line somewhere.  “I don’t need this and I certainly don’t need you telling me who you think I am or how you think I feel.  Because you don’t know.  How could you possibly understand when you throw your heart around like a $10 hooker?”

Jehan’s anger didn’t return, but a swell of other emotions did.  Shock, because he never actually expected Courfeyrac would treat him this way.  Anguish, because these words were like venom, piercing his veins.  Regret, for caring for this man in the first place, for still loving him in spite of this moment—and others before.  His journal would be filled with these thoughts and feelings before the night was through. 

“At least I’m just a metaphorical whore,” Jehan finally responded, tears stinging his eyes, “and not a real one.”  He fished his phone from his back pocket and tossed it on the couch where the rest of the group sat, staring with wide, unblinking eyes.  “I hope you find her, Marius.  It’s like The Beatles say: all you need is love.”  He walked quietly back to his room without another word.

It was the worst kind of awkward as silence engulfed the room.  With a bowed head, Courfeyrac contemplated his next move—remorse and grief marring his normally giddy features.  Bossuet sat on the arm of the couch, all but biting his hand as he clearly had something he wanted (but was afraid) to say.  Joly fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, letting time quietly elapse until they could comfortably get back to the matter at hand.  And Marius, sweet and untarnished Marius, was thinking about adding a new dorm suite rule: no personal arguments in the presence of company.  He would address it with Courfeyrac and Grantaire later.

Bossuet was all but bursting now, and couldn’t handle the tension for another moment longer.  “That was a dick move, Courf.”

“Oh, blow it out your ass!” Courfeyrac yelled back before walking into his bedroom and forcefully slamming the door.

Joly was just about to ask if it was acceptable to knock on Courfeyrac’s door to ask for his phone when a smug-looking Gavroche walked in.  “Oh, hey Gav!” Joly greeted cheerily, as if nothing remotely unnerving just transpired.  “You’re just in time.  Floors 4 and 9 were duds, but I was just about to check Jehan’s photos to—”

“Her name’s Cosette,” Gavroche said confidently, unlocking his password-protected phone to pull up the picture.  “She’s a third year Public Relations major who likes the color purple.  She’s also an RA, which means that you ‘technically’ can’t date her, but she’s really cool and I say screw technicalities.”

Gavroche received weird looks from all three men until he shoved the phone in Marius’ hands.  Marius jumped out of his seat, eyes wide and wholly entranced by this single photo.  “How did…oh my gosh!  Gavroche, you perfect genius!  It’s her!  It’s really her!  Cosette…that name is as beautiful as she is.  Gosh, I don’t know what’s happening to me.  Maybe she really is a Disney princess because I feel like bursting into song right now.”

“Please don’t,” Bossuet said, cringing at the thought.

Grantaire shuffled in shortly after and, since Marius, Joly and Bossuet were currently crowded around the picture of the beautiful blonde and talking animatedly, Gavroche was able to speak in secret to his much older friend.  “You have a lot of explaining to do.”

 


	4. True Formed and Foretold (Pt. 1)

The friendships made on floor 5A become something of legend.  They ate dinner together in the lounge, watched NCIS marathons till 3 a.m., and even started up “classy ladies night” on Tuesdays in which they would drink wine and watch movies with only effervescent dames of the film industry (Audrey Hepburn, Helen Mirren, and Judi Dench). There was one student, however, who made it a habit of avoiding any and all social interactions with his floormates.  He avoided physically being in the dorms for the most part, and based on Jehan’s limited knowledge of his roommate, Montparnasse was probably hopping from one bed to the next of every pretty maiden at their school.  He didn’t really boast about his conquests, but there were subtleties Jehan was keen to observe.

When the long-haired philanderer managed to stop by the room for longer than 15 minutes, there was never any casual exchange of pleasantries between roommates—well, at least not on Montparnasse’s part.  Jehan was lucky if he got more than a one-word answer out of the man and sometimes he wondered why he even bothered.  But the small poet persevered, asking about his day or classes or just simply trying to know a little bit more about the person he was going to share a room with for the next eight months.

And then everything changed the night of the fight.

He fought with Courfeyrac before—mostly trivial matters—and this night should have been no different.  But it was.  Jehan made it too personal and Courfeyrac rebounded with a crude and unforgiving insult.  It was strange, the fact that they came from the same high school yet clearly lived two completely different lives.  All they had in common was their stubbornness, their mutual love for Harry Potter, and a secret, burning desire for each other.

Jehan was now in the comfort of his full-size bed, a thick blanket draping his bony shoulders as he vigorously wrote in one of his journals.  He was five pages in, sometimes writing prose, sometimes writing poetry—the only continuity was that all of it was a choppy, garbled mess.  The knife, edged deep in his heart, made his words less eloquent and his thoughts constantly veering off course.  But he had to put something to paper, no matter how incoherent it was.

Montparnasse walked in then, hoping to change into some fresh clothes and grab a new pack of smokes before dashing out to visit some people (wasn’t sure if he’d call them friends) at the student-occupied condos down the street.  The semi-clean military green t-shirt he plucked—it was only worn once and who really has time to do laundry every other week anyway—was now halfway over his head when something triggered in his brain and he stopped.  “What’s wrong?”

It took Jehan a good minute to even register that his roommate was asking him a questions, was ACTUALLY talking to him.  He looked across the room at the man who finally got his shirt over his head and perched himself on the edge of his bed.

“Nothing,” the red-head eventually mumbled.

“Clearly something is if I have to push you to talk.  That’s never been an issue before.”

Jehan let out a puff of air.  “Nothing important…or at least nothing you’d want to hear.”

Montparnasse folded his arms and gave his roommate a challenging stare.  “You know, when you assume you make an ass out of ‘u’ and only ‘u’.”  He was trying to lighten the mood but Jehan wasn’t biting.  “Just tell me, because I know you want to.”

“Really, it’s fine,” Jehan responded, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear.  “I’ll be fine.  I just need to finish journaling and then get a good night’s sleep and then tomorrow will be fine…hopefully…maybe…or whatever.”

“I see,” the dark-haired boy said with a mild look of shock on his face.  “So, you really mean to turn down impeccable advice from a relationship expert—as I suspect that’s what’s on your mind—in favor of writing a sonnet about your feelings?  This is once in a lifetime stuff, Jehan, and who knows if I’ll ever offer my services like this again.”

Jehan found himself smiling in spite of the plethora of emotions that still plagued him.  Maybe his roommate would have some better insight on what to do about Courfeyrac—considering the two men had a similar enthusiasm for multiple bed partners.  “I’m very grateful, Montparnasse, but I don’t want to impose.  Don’t you have plans to go out tonight, anyway?”

“I never really plan, I just do.”  Montparnasse shrugged off his shoes and tucked his feet under his legs—proving to Jehan that he had every intention to stick around.  “And it’s Monty, if you don’t mind.”

Jehan’s smiled widened.

 

 

Before anyone knew it, September turned into October and October turned into “shit!  Halloween’s tomorrow?  Where am I gonna get a kick ass costume last minute?”  Some were more prepared than others.  Jehan had been periodically sewing together the final touches to his Poison Ivy costume.  Just a few more vines and it would be complete.

Official plans weren’t made until two days prior, when one of Musichetta’s suitors—they still called them that for Joly’s sake because ‘fling’ or ‘fuck buddy’ made him cringe and seethe with anger—invited her and any of her friends to his mansion-sized house on Baker St.  So, naturally, everyone on 5A was going.

Meanwhile, Enjolras was beginning to feel like he was never going to get a moment’s peace.  If he wasn’t interrupted by Marius’ irreverent desperation—and I don’t use desperation lightly because the boy could not have interpreted the word ‘groveling’ in a more literal context—to be introduced to Cosette, it was Joly and Bossuet testing out their dynamic duo costume ideas on him to see what got the best reaction (he immediately shot down their ‘differing stages of Michael Jackson’ idea), or—and he smiled at this—Grantaire offering up all varieties of bargaining chips to get Enjolras to go to the Halloween party with them.

“But this guy has a spiral staircase and a private library in his house.”

“No.”

Grantaire sighed, but the small noise that accompanied the sigh made it sound closer to a whine.  “It’s not like we—I mean, you need to stay all night.  In fact, since I know the kid inside of you is itching to do it, we’ll go trick-or-treating before the party.  I’ll steal a kid so it looks less creepy.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “You really need to stop thinking out loud.  One of these days, someone’s going to take your idiotic ramblings seriously and I will not bail you out of jail.”

“What if I promise not to dry my laundry on the air vents in the lounge anymore?” the dark-haired man suggested, ignoring Enjolras’ mild-mannered mockery.

The blonde rolled his eyes emphatically.  “You shouldn’t be doing that regardless!  The automatic dryers in the basement function just fine.  You do understand how weird that is, right?”

“It’s force of habit,” Grantaire said with a shrug, shoving his hands in his pockets.  “My mom made a convincing argument against machines that produce the same effect as wind currents.  Although, now that I think about it, she might’ve just been too ashamed to admit she couldn’t afford one.”

“If you really don’t know how to use one, I can show you.”

Grantaire laughed mirthlessly.  “I said I was used to not having one, not that I can’t read.  Any dummy can operate those things.”  He shifted his weight self-consciously when he saw a frown appear on Enjolras’ face.  “I really want you to come to this party.  I may not be able to predict _your_ opinion but I can certainly vouch that my enjoyment would increase if you were there.  Isn’t being an RA all about supporting your residents?”

He really wasn’t giving up, and Enjolras was running out of excuses.  “That’s a loose interpretation.  It’s just that—well, mingling with residents off campus and outside of school-related functions is highly frowned upon.”

“Geez!  How many guidelines are in that RA handbook?”  Grantaire quickly raised his hand, anticipating his advisor’s actions.  “Don’t answer that!  Listen, what if I said that I would show up to some of your Debate Club meetings?  You’ve already told me that you could use more members and I know that you know that I would slay most of those overachieving chumps in a debate.”

This offer actually gave Enjolras pause.  The team wasn’t as effective with only nine people in attendance.  Grantaire would finally make it an even number.  Grantaire would also make Jimmy wet his pants and Combeferre potentially proud.  Why hadn’t he introduced those two yet?  Combeferre was certainly a more level-headed, optimistic thinker than Grantaire but maybe he could see what Enjolras saw: an intellectual who was not born a cynic but instead became one, succumbing to the monotony and hopelessness of his reduced circumstances.

“Enjolras?”  Grantaire had decided that the man’s silence worked to his advantage.  Silence meant contemplation.  Contemplation meant maybe, and maybe was a yes that just needed an extra nudge.  He currently liked his odds.

“I’ll weigh my options and consider if I’m that desperate for a new debate partner, as long as you stop pestering me about it and actually let me come to my own conclusion.”

Grantaire didn’t need to be told twice.  “I’ll leave you to your thoughts,” he said before closing the blonde’s door on his way out.

 

 

Gavroche headed into the suite—Marius always locked the door but Courfeyrac and Grantaire kept unlocking it because everyone visited at all hours anyway and why exert themselves more than they needed to by getting up to open the door—and found Grantaire assessing how his costume looked in the full length mirror.

“You’re going as a rich, old fart who’s too lazy to change out of his pajamas?”

Grantaire quirked up one side of his mouth.  “Pretty close, little dude.  You see, there happens to be a person in existence who embodies and flaunts these attributes famously.  Hugh Hefner.”  He fastened the tie around his maroon velvet robe.

“I don’t know who that is,” Gavroche said, scrunching up his face and racking his brain for some sort of pertinent information on this person.

“It’s unbelievably satisfying, knowing something you don’t.  Would you mind if I got that in writing as well?”

Gavroche shook his head and pursed his lips.  “I’m sure this is an extremely rare moment for you.  Enjoy it while it lasts.  So, will your lady love be joining us tonight?”

“I have yet to receive a confirmation or refusal,” Grantaire replied curtly.  He was starting to regret informing Gavroche of his secret infatuation, because the boy took to using ridiculous codenames (‘lady love, ‘Apollo’) and winking at R whenever Enjolras was near.  But Gav discovered Grantaire’s friendship with Cosette, the other RA, and it made him skeptical as to why they had to steal Enjolras’ keys in the first place.  Grantaire was never good at lyring—withholding the truth maybe, but not lying and certainly not to kids—so the whole, unfortunate truth came tumbling out.  Needless to say, Grantaire was quick to change the subject.  “Nice costume.”

Gavroche adjusted the lapel of his long, white lab coat.  “Yeah, I figured everyone would appreciate that I’ve finally given into their mockery of my unusual brilliance.  I wouldn’t even know who this character was without their continual use of the nickname.  It was Ep’s idea, actually.”

“Is she coming tonight?” the older man asked.  “I wasn’t sure since she’s been kind of locked in seclusion ever since she found out about Marius’ crush on Cosette—which is still weird to me, by the way.  I mean, Marius is clearly a great guy, but I don’t think he can handle Cosette.  She’s a real firecracker.”

“And that’s precisely why we’re still going to keep your friendship with her a secret.  It’s just too amusing to watch him squirm awkwardly whenever he pretends he’s about to work up the courage to talk to her.”  Gavroche smiled devilishly which prompted Grantaire to punch him playfully in the shoulder.  “Ep is coming, though.  In spite of her heart being ‘forcefully ripped out of her chest and stomped on by a bunch of angry midgets while Satan himself brandishes it repeatedly with a red hot iron.’  That’s a direct quote.”

Grantaire picked up the pipe from his dresser and nodded.  “Sounds legit.”

Courfeyrac’s bedroom door swung open loudly before the man himself strutted out, spinning on his heels and making a grand spectacle of himself in his firmly pressed tuxedo.  “Pretty sexy, right?”  He skewed his face to look sophisticatedly charming (although, from Grantaire’s angle it looked a bit more like Derek Zoolander’s ‘Blue Steel’) and said in a smooth, Bond-esque voice, “I’ll have a martini.  Shaken, not stirred.”

“I’m sure the ladies and the fellas will be all over you tonight,” Grantaire said, donning his best deadpan tone.

“I already got a date for tonight.  She’s meeting me there.”  Courfeyrac froze, his mouth gaping disbelievingly at Gavroche.  “Doogie!  You dressed as Doogie!  I’m feeling suddenly emotional at seeing this come to life.  Wait!  Don’t move!  I’m getting my camera.”

The three suitemates and the Thenardiers headed out to the party—Grantaire and Courfeyrac insisted on getting there early to stake a claim on the good liquor because, well, the guy was loaded and would certainly have some of the top shelf stuff—while the others said they’d meet them there.

Grantaire knocked on Enjolras door on their way to the elevator, but there was no answer so he followed the others out with a pronounced slope of his shoulders and a pipe lodged between his lips to hide the frown.

The house seemed even bigger on the inside.  “Kinda like one of those magical tents in Harry Potter,” Coureyrac had said once they walked in.  He grimaced when he realized that the only other person who’d appreciate that reference wasn’t with them.  He didn’t even know if Jehan was coming tonight because they hadn’t spoken since Courfeyrac called him a whore.  He regretted it now, obviously, but apologizing wasn’t his strong suit and he was still dealing with his own internal battle over why he snapped at the petite boy in the first place.  Perhaps he was afraid to admit that Jehan was right.

Grantaire and Courfeyrac made a cozy little home at the corner of the bar—yes, the guy had an actual bar—as partygoers mingled and drank and danced as if they didn’t have a care in the world.  They were both leaning on the bar, casually stealing glances between their watches and the front entrance.  Grantaire didn’t give any excuses for his actions but Courfeyrac kept periodically mumbling something about how Bond girls took pleasure in being fashionably late.

Grantaire was polishing off a glass of Maker’s Mark when it nearly went down the wrong pipe.  He suppressed the sharp intake of breath that was his normal response whenever he saw Enjolras because he didn’t want to start coughing and sputtering in front of him.

“You came,” Grantaire said, pushing himself off the bar and as far away from Courfeyrac as possible—he had a knack for sticking his nose in other people’s business.  “And your costume’s…well, let’s be honest, a bit of a disappointment.  As someone who strictly abides by rules, you should know better than to attend a Halloween Party without a proper costume.”

Enjolras shrugged.  “This was the best I could do on short notice.”  He was dressed in his normal street clothes with the addition of a “Hi My Name is…” sticker that read “Jim” on his chest.

“Short notice?  I told you about this shindig several days ago.”  But then an unwelcome thought dawned on Grantaire.  “Unless, you weren’t planning on coming.”

“The cons outweighed the pros,” Enjolras replied, reluctantly.  “It just didn’t seem like a wise decision, but then Combeferre convinced me that acting like a hermit in my room wasn’t going to help us find new members for the Debate Club.  I brought some friends along, if that’s alright.”

No, it wasn’t alright because Grantaire just wanted to have a night out with Enjolras where they could laugh and dance and make comments about each other’s costumes as an excuse to touch the fabric—to touch them—and then somehow they’d wander into an unoccupied bedroom so they could let their lips and hands do the talking for once.  Is that really too much to ask?  “It’s not my party, so I don’t know why you’re seeking out my permission.  Although, there’s like a hundred people here so I’m sure he’s not taking a head count.  I have to say, it’s a bit odd that your reason for going to a Halloween party is to recruit club members.”

“Give me some credit here, Grantaire.  I’m not recruiting.  I’m just trying to socialize.  Casual, non-educational conversation has never been my forte.”

The brunette snorted before removing the pipe from his mouth.  “So I’ve noticed.  How did you become an RA again?”

Enjolras tried to act affronted, shoving Grantaire away from him, but the upward turn of his mouth gave him away.  They were dangerously close to flirting, which came to an abrupt halt the moment a man with sandy-colored hair—and dressed as Qui-Gon Jinn—appeared at Enjolras’ side.

“Oh,” the blonde said before clearing his throat and adjusting the implication of his smile.  “Grantaire, this is my friend, Combeferre.  He’s the RA on 4C.”

“How’s it going,” Grantaire greeted cordially, shaking the guy’s non-lightsaber-wielding hand.  Enjolras had actually mentioned Combeferre before and, from what he could tell, they seemed to go a ways back.  Schmoozing with his friends could really only help his chances with Enjolras.

“Where are your Playboy Bunnies?” Combeferre jokingly asked, the same dry tone that Enjolras often used.

It took Grantaire a moment to realize the question was in regard to his outfit.  “Wouldn’t you know it, I stopped by the pet store today and they said they didn’t have any.  I was so outraged that I even made a formal complaint.”

Combeferre nodded.  “I’m sure management will take that complaint very seriously.”

Grantaire was then introduced to two other RAs—did they travel in packs or something?—Bahorel (as Lt. Dangle from _Reno 911_ ) and Feuilly (as Moe Szyslak, the depressed barkeep).  Astonishingly, Grantaire had met one of them before.

“Hey!  What’s up, man?” Bahorel said enthusiastically.  “We missed you at the last competition.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.  I had plans I couldn’t get out of.”  It was the night Grantaire watched _The Last Supper_ in Enjolras’ room.  “Wish I could’ve been there.  I heard Musichetta killed it again.”  Enjolras looked thoroughly confused so Grantaire filled him in on the Beerfest tournaments at Quigley’s that were held the 2nd Thursday of every month.

Bahorel shook his head in disbelief.  “Dude, that chick is unreal when it comes to flip cup.  I don’t even care that she’s underage.  I support the continued use of that fake I.D. as long as I get to see her reduce a bunch of overconfident frat guys to ill-equipped, whiny little babies again.”

“Speak of the devil,” Grantaire said, motioning to the scene behind them.  The music was louder now, bright-colored lasers swirling in every direction as people swayed and jumped and writhed against each other.  At the forefront of this rave was a woman dancing on top of a long table, brilliant orange wig clinging to her sweaty neck.  She moved with the grace of a ballerina and the finesse of a stripper.  It was no small wonder that the white bandages strategically wrapped around her naked body never gaped open to reveal more flesh to the crowd of hard up men that surrounded her.

Musichetta was a vision, owning her sexuality and giving it an ethereal glow.  Joly was entranced.  Joly was certain this feeling flittering about in his chest was love.  But he couldn’t tell her all this.  He felt somehow unworthy of her affection.  He was her floormate, her medical advisor (a title he was branded with the moment they all discovered he was a nursing major), and yes, definitely her friend.  But could he let this friendship escalate into something more?

More importantly, should he?  Musichetta yearned for adventure—she wanted to be an aerospace engineer, after all, so she had this mentality of finding satisfaction in the exploration of uncharted territory—and Joly wasn’t up to the task of sharing her with the rest of the world.  There were always men—and often women—ogling her, much like the horde of men that stood around her now, eagerly waiting to swoop in.

Sometimes Joly wished he could just take her away from all this, to a deserted island somewhere away from roaming eyes and hands and suffocating levels of testosterone.  Musichetta; that was all he needed.

Well, maybe Bossuet could come too.  Joly had never had a best friend but he certainly found one in his roommate.  They complimented each other exceedingly well.  Bossuet’s accident prone tendencies and overall rotten luck gave Joly an excuse to play doctor, and Bossuet was always a willing patient.  He liked being taken care of because it was a quality his parents never showed him in his earlier years.

They had already made a pact to get an apartment together next year—or the year after that, depending on the state of Bossuet’s finances.  This dynamic duo supported each other through everything, which was why Bossuet, dressed in teal scrubs, stood right next to Joly, his scrubs had more of a periwinkle tint to it, on the opposite end of the room from where Musichetta was dancing.

“Just go ask her to dance,” Bossuet prodded with a shoulder nudge.  “I’m sure she’d rather dance with a friend than any of those drunk upperclassman.”

Joly audibly sighed.  “How is that a good idea?  You’ve seen me dance.  You compared it to a giraffe having uncontrollable muscle spasms.”

This was true.  Joly couldn’t dance for shit but Bossuet had to say something to try to get his friend out of this funk.  They were at a party, for Christ’s sake!  “There’s nothing wrong with spazzy dancing.  If anything, spazzy dancers end up being the real lady killers.”

“Name one—”

“Napoleon Dynamite, Carlton from Fresh Prince,” Bossuet blurted out quickly, keeping count of his list on his fingers.  “Linus! I mean, how many times did Sally gush about him?  And all he did was this weird hop and hump thing.  Ooh!  Mumble from Happy Feet! Talk about a spaz—”

Joly covered his friend’s blabbering mouth with his hand.  “Alright.  You’ve made your point.  But it hasn’t motivated me enough to walk over there so can we just consider this a lost cause and head back to the dorms?  If you say yes, we can play a round of Small World before I get too sleepy…”

Bossuet loved Small World and Joly started to hate it (probably because he lost 95% of the time), so he would take any chance to get him to play.  He was about to answer in the affirmative when someone crept up and wrapped their bare arms around the twosome.  “Guys!  What are you standing over here for?  You look unbelievably bored and that is unacceptable, especially when you both look so scrumptious in your J.D. and Turk costumes.  Eek!  I could eat you up!”

Thankfully, Joly’s blush was not noticeable under the dim lights.  “W-We don’t really know many people here.”  Bossuet nodded, supportively, even if he knew it was a lame excuse.

“Well, you know me,” Musichetta said with a flourish, “and I think that all three of us need to hit the dance floor right now.”

“You still got some stamina after all that?” Bossuet asked with a smirk.

Musichetta winked at him.  “Honey, never question my stamina.  I fully intend to move and shake until I can’t feel my legs anymore.  I'm taking you both along for the ride.”

“But,” Joly started, preparing a string of protests— _I have no rhythm, there’s already a line of men waiting to dance with you, it’s getting rather late, etc._

The woman who looked like Mila Jovovich’s double at the moment, wouldn’t hear any more excuses.  “Joly, my darling, the only ‘butt’ I want to hear you talk about for the rest of the evening is mine.  Now, let’s make this a night to remember.”  She snatched both of their hands and dragged them out to the dance floor—any initial reluctance fading the moment her hips started swaying again.

_To Be Continued…_


	5. True Formed and Foretold (Pt. 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halloween continued...

The front door to the sizeable and somewhat garish house swung open as a man in a toga appraised Cosette with half-lidded eyes.  “A pretty thing like you shouldn’t be showing up to a party alone.  Want me to keep you company?”

“Eww, no,” Cosette replied, pushing past him and into the expansive foyer.  She was on a mission, scanning her surroundings with acute precision for a dark-haired man in a smoking jacket.

Cosette didn’t like Halloween very much (or at all).  At least, not since the previous year.  She remembered being a doe-eyed freshman, excited to embark on ‘grown-up’ adventures and get all dolled up for parties on Greek Row.  Halloween changed all that with several cases of mistaken identity and drunk boys in costumes getting _way_  too close for comfort.

She had trust issues after that.  Parties just sort of lost their allure—hence why she was so reluctant to be here, in a costume that highlighted her considerably bare midriff.   But Grantaire had been sending her an array of text messages about Enjolras or the stupid party or how miserably drunk he was going to get, so she snatched up the only costume she had in her closet—she dressed as Sonya Blade to a gamer party last spring—and headed out to retrieve her friend.  Whether she intended to console him or slap him across the head was still up for debate.

Cosette adjusted the black beret on her head as she headed toward the large dance hall.  Bodies were everywhere, packed in like sardines, and the task of finding Grantaire became a much more daunting task.  She slithered her way through the crowd, avoiding any physical contact as if they were all infected with something she didn’t want to catch. 

She managed to make it all the way to the bar and was just about to round a corner into another narrow hallway when she collided with Velma from Scooby Doo, or at least a girl dressed like her.  “Ooh!  Sorry!”

“I’ll live,” the brunette said, working out the kink in her shoulder.  A young man with freckle-dusted cheeks stood next to her and Cosette really had to fight the urge to laugh.  Unlike her crass friend, she didn’t like to make fun of complete strangers, but this guy’s costume really took the cake. The off-white, fuzzy onesie he wore—complete with pointy little animal ears sticking out of the hood—was so adorably childlike that she wondered how off-putting it would be to pinch his cheek.  If someone were to shove a pacifier in his mouth, it probably wouldn’t look out of place.

Cosette had every intention to keep on walking—maybe snigger in private about the ‘man-baby’ later—except something gave her pause.  She didn’t know if it was because the man was now avidly gawking at her or because there was something familiar about his face when she looked past the ridiculous hood.  In the end, the latter won out.

“Where do I know you from?” she asked bluntly.

The scrawny young many gulped before ducking his head down—as if she was some untouchable being he feared making eye contact with.  “Elevator?”

“What?  No.  But I have seen your face before.”  She stared at him, thoroughly taking in every freckle and eyelash until it finally clicked.  “I remember now!  You’re Grantaire’s roommate, right?  We haven’t actually met before but he’s shown me pictures of you and that weird, curly-haired kid.”

The boy nodded enthusiastically.  “Courfeyrac.”

Cosette smiled and held out her hand.  “It’s nice to finally meet you, Courfeyrac.  I’m Cosette.”

He didn’t shake her hand, or do much of anything, actually.  He just continued to stare.  At least he was staring into her eyes and not at her naked abdomen—which couldn’t be said for a lot of people.  Still, Cosette found his lack of formal manners increasingly unsettling.

Thankfully, the woman Cosette bumped into was still there and could use her voice easily enough.  “His name’s Marius, actually.  Courfeyrac’s the weird, curly-haired kid.”  A look of understanding crossed the blonde’s face.  “So, you’re the famous Cosette.”

Cosette wasn’t overly pleased with the other woman’s tone.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Gav told me all about you,” she replied smoothly.  “I’m his older sister, Eponine.  We talk about pretty much everything, which happens to include you.  He likes you a lot.”

 “That’s right, he told me he had a sister.  Gavroche is such a sweetheart.  I mean, he’s super smart but actually really cool.”  Cosette could talk about the little genius all day, but her irresponsible friend wasn’t getting any soberer.  “Since I have you here, I’m trying to locate Grantaire.  Have you seen him?  He’s not responding to my texts anymore and that usually means he dropped his phone in the toilet or is passed out in some undiscovered nook of the house.”

Eponine shrugged, the lip of her orange turtleneck sweater rising up to rest against her chin.  “He went with Gav to check out the second floor because someone said there was a DDR machine in one of the rooms.  But that was at least an hour ago.  Those two never stay in one place for very long.”

This was a habit of Grantaire’s that Cosette was all too familiar with.  It was least helpful when he was drunk because he had a knack for trying to fit in places normal people shouldn’t—like a kitchen cupboard, or a doghouse, or even a giant duffle bag that someone took the liberty of zipping up.  Needless to say, he was a roaring favorite at parties and bars, but not if you were the reliable friend charged with getting him home safely (a.k.a Cosette).

“You didn’t happen to see how much he’s had to drink tonight,” Cosette approached cautiously, “did you?”

Eponine shook her head but it was the boy called Marius who replied, surprisingly.  “He spent the first half of the night at the bar with Courfeyrac.”  Cosette released an exasperated sigh, which Marius was keen to notice.  “Do you need us to help you find him?”  Eponine shot a not-so-subtle glare in Marius’ direction.

“I’ll be fine.  This isn’t my first rodeo.  You guys should go enjoy the party.  But if you do happen to see him, shoot me a text.  Here, I’ll give you my number.”

She stretched out an open palm and Marius (wide-eyed and convinced that this whole evening was some elaborate dream) fumbled anxiously for his cellphone.  He remembered now that the one-piece costume provided no pockets and he blinked rapidly trying to remember where he put the damned thing because if he chose today of all days to leave his phone in his room he would surely spend the rest of the evening banging his head against the wall for being so idiotic and—

Eponine dropped Marius’ phone (albeit, reluctantly) into Cosette’s waiting palm.  “You put it in my purse, remember?” she said, addressing Marius.  “Your specially crafted Max costume wasn’t designed with carting around personal belongings in mind.”

“Oh!  I get it now!” Cosette exclaimed while typing her info into Marius’ phone.  He was back to his awkward staring again.  “At first I thought you were just like a toddler or something, but I totally read that book as a kid.  Where the Wild Things Are, right?  That is so cute.  I gotta applaud your creativity on that one.”

Marius smiled and bowed his head sheepishly.

The beautiful blonde handed his phone back to him, which Eponine tried to put back in her purse but he instinctively clutched it to his chest before remarking that he didn’t mind holding onto it for a little while.

“Alright, time to return to the trenches,” Cosette said mournfully.  “If I don’t see you later it’s probably because I’m trying to talk Grantaire out of climbing out the window.  The things we do for family.  Anyway, maybe I’ll catch you guys at the dorms sometime.  Toodles!”

As the blonde woman went on her merry way, Eponine could only push the thick-rimmed glasses up on her face before giving her best interpretation of a halfhearted wave.

Marius, on the other hand, looked as starry-eyed as he was that day in the elevator.  He talked to her!  Well, she actually did most of the talking, which was something he needed to work on if there were to be more conversations in the future.  Although, he would be perfectly content with just listening to her voice for the rest of his life.  And now her phone number was saved under his contacts, which meant he could call or text her whenever he wanted—or maybe not because, in the spirit of full disclosure, he’s still too chicken to even say ‘hi’.

“Alright, Marius,” Eponine said morosely, “you can come back down from LaLa Land.  She’s gone.”

Out of his reverie, Marius turned to dramatically grip Eponine by the shoulders.  “I need you to be honest with me, Ep!  It’s a matter of colossal importance.  How pathetic did I come across just then?”

The Velma look-alike winced.  “Well, you gave her non-descriptive, one word answers.  At one point, you stopped replying altogether.  You were also staring a lot and I’m pretty sure she noticed.  Oh, and let’s not forget that you’re wearing fuzzy footie pajamas.”

The word that best described the look on Marius’ face was mortification.  Complete and utter mortification.  He began to pace from one side of the wall to the other, frantically fiddling with the zipper on his onesie.  “This is a disaster.  I mean, why can’t I make a good impression her?  Least of all, a normal one.  The first time I see her, I sneezed like I had a foghorn shoved up my nose, and now I’m a man child who doesn’t even know his own name.  At the rate I’m going, she’ll never see me in a different light.”

Eponine knew exactly how Marius felt, though acknowledging that didn’t lessen the sting.  She spent over two months believing that the more time they spent together the sooner he’d realize that what he was looking for was right in front of him.  It seemed so near, just beyond the reach of her fingertips, but if she stretched out any further she could loser her balance and fall.  Instead of falling on her accord, however, she was pushed (metaphorically speaking) by a blonde-haired woman in an elevator.

So, what course of action was Eponine supposed to take now?  Should she abandon the man who relied on her devout friendship so she could go back to sulking in her room and start up the pity party that was to be the rest of her life?  Or does she suck it up and see this through…potentially becoming his shoulder to cry on when Cosette is either (a) not interested or (b) breaking up with him in six months?  After all, there’s no such thing as a selfless act.  Everything is done with a greater purpose in mind.

“Hey,” Eponine said sharply, grabbing his arm to halt his anxiety-inducing ministrations.  “Snap out of it, okay.  You’re drawing ridiculous conclusions based on two chance encounters.  She doesn’t even know you yet!  I’m sure that if you calmed down and had a normal conversation with her, she would see your kindness, your wit, and your impeccable manners.”  She reached up to pinch one of his flushed cheeks.  “What’s not to love about you, Marius.”

Marius stared back at his friend, taking in her words and trying to find his own.  She wasn’t just a friend, actually, he felt at ease calling her his best friend.  He could usually count on her to tell him what he needed to hear.  She was his rock, keeping him grounded in the chaotic storm that began the day he left home to start a new life.

His voice was small, almost hesitant.  “I feel like that speech would’ve had a better impact if you didn’t pinch my cheek.  You’re a peach, Ep, really, but doing that was kind of like pouring salt on—”

He let out a surprised hiss as Eponine twisted one of his nipples—which was easy to find through the plush material.  “Was that better?  I mean, I try to be a good friend, and that’s the thanks I get!”

Trying not to double over in pain—because he still needed to prove that he was a man—Marius simply winced and massaged his peck lightly.  “Alright, truce. I’m a crappy friend and you’re an amazing one and I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t on my floor this year.  Can we hug it out now?”

“You’re so lame,” Eponine replied with a soft smile as the man in front of her held his arms out in invitation and donned his best puppy dog face.  “But I have the feeling that hugging you right now would be like getting a hug from a giant teddy bear and I’ve always secretly wished for that.”

His affectionate embrace was heaven.  He was warm and pressed so close and she wanted to be wrapped in that moment (in his arms) forever.

But forever doesn’t exist, and all too soon Marius released his hold on her.  “Hey,” he said, still standing close enough to whisper, “do you think we could help her find R?”

Eponine swallowed her pain.  “Because you want to text her?”

He nodded, unmistakable desperation in his eyes.

“Lead the way,” she said, waving him off.  Marius headed toward the end of the hall that opened up into the dance floor.  She watched him walk away with a mournful sigh.  He was never really hers to lose and she had to accept that if this friendship was going to work.  “Jinkies.”

 

\------

 

“Are we really just going to lurk by the bar all night?” a young woman with dark red hair asked.  “And please stop making those clucking sounds with your tongue.  It makes my skin crawl.”

Courfeyrac sipped his martin, an elbow casually leaning against the bar, as he surveyed the crowded dance floor.  He addressed his date without even making eye contact with her.  “I’m not gonna dance with you, if that’s what you’re getting at.  Plus, I like this spot.  I’m not moving.  And I choose to cluck disapprovingly when I believe a situation warrants it.”

The redhead rolled her eyes.  “Is this still about the costu—”

“Of course it’s about the costume!” Courfeyrac spat, irritated and just about done with this stupid holiday.  “I gave you the pick of the litter.  I said choose ANY Bond girl, and not only did you chose the most complicated one but also decided to put the least amount of effort into it!”

“You need to get off your high horse, alright?  It’s just a costume for a Halloween party, that I’m only ever gonna wear once.  We’re not participating in some contest over who’s wearing the most life-like adaptations.  And furthermore…”

Courfeyrac didn’t hear the rest, his pulse suddenly racing and beating loudly against his eardrums.  It was like happening upon a mirage in a desert, something too extraordinary to be true.  He’d been unconcernedly scanning the room all evening, secretly hoping a particular person would just show up in his line of sight.  But it was late now and Courfeyrac had pretty much given up that pipedream.

But there he was—a stunning spectacle in various shades of green.  Courfeyrac often had a subtle appreciation for Jehan’s exquisite bone structure or how the boy’s copper locks glided against the breeze when they’d walk to class together.  Tonight was different though.  Now Courfeyrac was gazing at a version of Jehan that had never previously been revealed.  His legs were long and firm, encased by a pair of forest green stockings.  The strapless, lime green bodice fit Jehan like a glove and put a more feminine jaunt in his walk.  Tiny flecks of gold and silver glitter danced with the freckles that swathed across his face and arms.  Jehan was the most beautiful thing Courfeyrac had ever seen and he felt foolish for not realizing until now how desperately he wanted that pint-sized poet in his life.

Jehan caught his eye and drew nearer, apparently determined to confront Courfeyrac (even after a week and a half of radio silence).

Upon closer inspection, Courfeyrac saw a man walking beside him.  Not just any man, but Jehan’s roommate, Montparnasse.  He had the look of a 1950s motorcycle-riding bad boy—like James Dean or Danny from Grease.  It actually wasn’t all that different from how the guy normally dressed because Montparnasse never left the dorms without his black leather jacket and the only discernible changes in his appearance were the cuffed pants and neatly-combed hair.

Courfeyrac had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he didn’t let it show as he greeted the unlikely pair.  “Well, good evening, Ms. Ivy and her illustrious sidekick…come to think of it, I don’t recall her teaming up with a grease monkey in any of the comics.”

“You’re a comedian,” Montparnasse said sarcastically.

Jehan tried to act indifferent about this encounter, inhaling slowly and squaring his shoulders.  Two could play this game after all.  “Hello Courf, and nameless redhead who I’ll probably never see again.”

Courfeyrac didn’t have the heart to object to that—mainly because it was true.  Courfeyrac’s date, however, seemed offended by everything.  “A bit rude, don’t you think?”

“Actually, that assessment was based on previous observation.”  Jehan scrunched up his wild mane of hair to give it a little more volume.  “Nothing personal.” 

The woman, whose name had even escaped Courfeyrac at the moment, scoffed and folded her arms across her chest.

“You know,” Courfeyrac said, looking at his watch, “you’re kind of pushing it when it comes to making a fashionably late entrance.”

Jehan chewed on his lower lip—Courfeyrac swallowed.  “Monty knew of a few other parties in the area so we stopped by them first.”

Montparnasse chose that moment to grab Jehan by the waist and rest his chin on his bare shoulder.  The fact that Courfeyrac’s teeth instinctively clenched was completely irrelevant.  “You should’ve seen the way our lovely Jehan shined tonight.  Everyone wanted a piece of him, all sexified in this hot, little number, but I put a stop to that real quick.”

“Oh.”  Courfeyrac cleared his throat, hoping it would somehow stop the bile from rising up.  “I, um, I wasn’t aware you two were dating.” 

Jehan looked concerned, fidgeting under Montparnasse’s grasp.  He tried to say something but Monty beat him to it.  “Yeah,” he said, planting a tender kiss on Jehan’s cheek.  “It’s new.  What can I say, he’s a great listener and I love when he reads me his poems.”

Courfeyrac stared down at his empty martini glass.  “He’s very talented.  I’ve told him so on several occasions.”

“I guess,” Monty said, continuing his ode to Jehan, “I’m just lucky he wasn’t attached to anyone else.  It also helps that we live in the same room, if you catch my drift.  No interruptions.”  He purred out that last part right under Jehan’s ear.

Courfeyrac whirled around and slammed his glass on the linoleum countertop.  “I’ll have another,” he said to the bartender.  “On second thought, just give me the vodka straight up.”

“I don’t think Courf is interested in sordid details, Monty.”  Jehan shot the man a secret look and squirmed out of his reach.  He looked back at Courfeyrac, who still hadn’t turned around after ordering his drink.  “Musichetta told me that Gav dressed as Doogie Howser.  Guess we have an effect on him after all.”

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac responded softly.  “I took a few pictures.  He looks great.”  He inhaled deeply before moving to face the small group again.  “So do you, by the way.  I don’t know if I mentioned that already, but you look fantastic.”

“Thanks.  I really like your tux.”

They were staring at each other for an unreasonably long time until an obnoxious huff broke their fixed concentration.  “You never complimented me,” the redhead whined.

Courfeyrac closed his eyes and shook his head.  He even clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth to emphasize his profound displeasure.  “That’s because there isn’t a single way for me to manipulate a compliment out of that disastrous costume.”

“Who is she supposed to be, anyway?” Jehan chimed in.  “Ginger from Gilligan’s Island?”

“Ha!  See!  Nobody recognizes you.  She tried to pull this tiny gold dress off as the Golden Girl.”

“You know what, Courf,” she said, throwing her hands up in exasperation, “I’m done!  I don’t even know why I agreed to go to this party with you. I’m not gonna paint my whole body gold just because you want authenticity.  Ugh!  Whatever, I’m gonna go dance while there’s still music playing.  Oh, and don’t bother calling me!”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he called after her as she disappeared into the crowd.

Monty arched his brow.  “Love ‘em and leave ‘em, huh Courfeyrac?”

He didn’t reply, instead quietly downing the remnants of his drink—savoring the burn as it shot down his throat.

“All-over gold paint is kind of hazardous,” Jehan said thoughtfully.  “As far as Bond girls go, I think I would’ve went with Tatiana Romanov.  It’s simple yet recognizable.  All you’d need is a white bed sheet and a black satin choker.”

The mental image of Jehan wrapped in nothing but a bed sheet made Courfeyrac dizzy with want.  He gripped the edge of the bar for support.

“Yeah.  That’s…practical.”  Courfeyrac decided not to mention that Ms. Romanov was his absolute favorite Bond girl.  It was awkward enough that they kept staring at each other so intensely, as if Jehan’s new boyfriend wasn’t standing idly by, as if there wasn’t anyone else in the room, actually.  Only the two of them.

Monty finally caught on and intervened.  “Come on, babe.”  He grabbed Jehan’s hand and started walking backward. “I want to stop by one more place before we head home.  I don’t have any AM classes tomorrow so we can sleep in.”  He winked suggestively.

Jehan carefully gaged Courfeyrac’s reaction and it all but broke him.  “No, I want to stay.”  His feet remained rooted to the spot.

Montparnasse returned to Jehan’s side, only to whisper something in his ear.  Courfeyrac didn’t hear what was said but he watched as Jehan’s gaze fell to the floor, his face morphing into a look of sad understanding.

“Alright, let’s go,” Jehan eventually said, linking his fingers between Monty’s.  “Bye, Courf.  Don’t drink too much, okay?  You’ll have a headache in the morning.”

Courfeyrac watched their retreating forms with a heavy heart.  He watched as Monty released Jehan’s hand, only to place an arm possessively on the small of his back.  He even watched as Jehan slowly but surely did the same.  “I fucking hate Halloween.”

 

\-----

 

Grantaire was a dead weight.  He had an average build—a considerably broad chest and toned arms from years of working as a stock boy—but for Cosette and Enjolras, it felt like they were carrying an anvil whenever Grantaire would choose to pass out mid-stride.

“We’re almost at the elevator,” Cosette said encouragingly after slapping his cheek a few times to wake him up.  “How does a nice, warm bed sound, huh?  D’you want to sleep in your bed?  Come on, let’s go get you in bed.  Come on!”

Enjolras gave Cosette a strange look.  “He’s not a dog, you know.”

With one of Grantaire’s arms draped around her shoulders—the other supported by Enjolras—all she had to do was give him a gentle nudge before his feet started moving again.  “It worked, didn’t it?  Besides, when Grantaire’s this drunk, he doesn’t know who or what he is.”

They made it to the elevator, leaning Grantaire against the wall so Enjolras could key them up.  “I didn’t know you two were such good friends,” he said as they started to go up.

“We’ve kind of been in and out of each other’s lives since primary school.  Being four years apart meant that we were rarely at the same school, but we always found a way to make time for each other.”  The familiar ding that prompted the doors to open caused the two RAs to hook themselves under Grantaire’s arms once more.

“I’m just surprised since he’s never really mentioned you before,” Enjolras remarked, breathing quite heavily as they dragged Grantaire down the hall and to his suite.

“Why do you say that?  Do you guys talk a lot or something?”  She hid her smile as she searched through the pockets of Grantaire’s smoking jacket for his room key.

A flush crept up Enjolras’ neck.  “What?  No.  I mean, not more than usual.  He is my resident and if he comes to me for any reason, it is my responsibility to listen and make him feel as if he is part of a welcoming community.”

Cosette laughed.  “You don’t need to quote the handbook to me, Enjolras.  I just find it interesting that the two of you talk at all considering…well, let’s be honest here, you don’t like people very much.”

“I wish everyone would stop making this assumption about me because it is simply not true.”  They turned sideways to get Grantaire through the door.  “I have a deep appreciation for each person’s contribution to society as a whole.  I am merely socially…inexperienced.  There is a difference.”

“Which room is his?” Cosette asked.  Enjolras pointed to the right and they sluggishly moved in that direction.  “So, what, were you like severely sheltered as a child?”

Enjolras didn’t like bringing up the past.  “Something like that.  Is Grantaire awake enough to see that his bed is in front of him?”

“Hey, sweetie,” Cosette cooed, rubbing Grantaire’s stubbly cheek with the pad of her thumb.  “It’s time for bed, okay?  So, let’s take off those shoes and—”

Grantaire made a garbled ‘hmph’ sound before falling face first onto his bed.  Enjolras raised his eyebrows and held back a snort.  “Well, that plan worked marvelously.”

“Here, help me get his shoes off.”

“I feel like this is going beyond the call of duty,” Enjolras said, reluctant to go near Grantaire’s (potentially) smelly feet.  He had a severe aversion to all things feet-related.  “Why can’t he just do it himself?  Hey, Grantaire!  Lose the shoes!  You don’t want to sleep in them.”

Enjolras was able to duck just in time as one of Grantaire’s black loafers came flying through the air and slammed loudly against the wall.

“That’s why,” Cosette replied, glaring at Enjolras.  She managed to get the other one off before he had a chance to fling it.  “Sweetie, where’s your phone?  It’s not in your jacket.”

Grantaire blindly fisted his hand into the pocket of his navy blue satin pajama bottoms and several seconds (and way too much effort) later, he pulled the device out.  Cosette must have assumed her friend was conscious enough to not throw his phone, which was why she didn’t react in time when his arm catapulted forward.

Enjolras was ready for it.  He didn’t bolt out of the way this time, instead snatching it out of the air adeptly.   “Jesus, Grantaire!  You’re liable to get someone killed one of these days!”

“Enj’s bein’ mean,” Grantaire mumbled quite incoherently.  “Ma’e ‘im stop bein’ mean.”

Cosette shushed him softly, smoothing out the sweaty curls that clung to his forehead in a wild disarray.  “He’s not being mean.  We’re both worried about you, that’s all.  We don’t want you or anyone else getting hurt.  Do you want some water before you go to sleep?”

The intoxicated brunette nodded, his bottom lip jutting out prominently.

Enjolras went to the nearby mini fridge and pulled out a bottle of water for Grantaire.  He seemed to be gradually regaining consciousness because he was now sitting up against the bed frame and able to nurse the water bottle with his own hands.  “Okay, well it looks like you have everything under control here so I’m gonna head out.”

“I wan’ da ‘wok,” Grantaire announced suddenly, oblivious to Enjolras’ presence. 

Cosette sighed.  “No, Grantaire, just get some sleep.  It’s back at my room and I can’t—”

“I want it!” he yelled, a little more clearly this time.  “I want the Ewok!  I’m not sleeping till I have it.”

“What’s he talking about?” Enjolras inquired curiously.

Cosette left Grantaire’s side.  “It’s this plush toy we got as kids.  You know the cute, fuzzy guy from Star Wars?  Anyway, we were on vacation at Disneyland and didn’t have enough money for two so we decided on joint custody and we haven’t considered buying a new one since.”

Enjolras scrunched up his nose.  “That’s…weird.”

“Though I normally would, it is seriously way too late for me to bicker with you over the general acceptance of nonconventional friendships.  Hey, listen, can you watch over him for a few minutes while I go get the stuffed animal?  I don’t want to leave him alone until he’s actually asleep.”

Enjolras was beyond exhausted and his neck was starting to hurt from carrying Grantaire through the dorm and the Halloween party really ended up being a bust because everyone was either too drunk or too high to hold a decent conversation with him.  “Yeah.  Sure.  Whatever.”

She smiled gratefully before bolting out of the room and down the hall.

“Cosette,” Grantaire breathed out languidly.  “I’m sorry I drank so much, but I had a bad night and I really want to talk to you about it.”  His eyes were closed as he slumped back down to rest on his pillow.

“Um, Cosette just left, Grantaire.  She’s getting your—”

Grantaire huffed loudly, flopping his arms against the bed.  “It’s like I can’t get his voice out of my head.  I know you hate when I talk about him, but he’s so—ugh, I just can’t help myself sometimes.”

Enjolras had a strange feeling in his gut that he knew who Grantaire was talking about, and that he should stop this before it escalated too quickly, but something wicked within him wanted to hear it from Grantaire’s own lips.  “Who?”

Grantaire released a shaky breath.  “Who?  She says who.  The immaculate blonde statue, of course.  Apollo, with his perfect hair and those chiseled cheekbones and that long torso that I want to run my hands over to memorize every contour.”

Enjolras should walk away.  He really needs to walk away and—where the hell is Cosette?  She’s only three floors up!

“Oh, I’m in trouble, Cosette,” he continued—and Enjolras made no indication of leaving.  “It was bad enough when I was just physically attracted to Enjolras, but now I ache for all of him.  He’s brilliant and passionate and—god, I could just talk to him for hours and hours.”

“Even though you argue with him?”  Why was Enjolras egging this on?  He needed to stop it.  This needed to stop!

Grantaire smiled and rubbed his hand over his chest.  “Especially then.  I love watching the fire ignite in his eyes.”  The smile disappeared as a memory came flooding back to him.  “I wanted to have this night alone with him but he almost didn’t show, and when he did he brought company.”

“Grantaire, I—”

The semi-conscious man wasn’t finished though.  “I wanted a lot of things.  I wanted him to feel what I’m feeling.  I wanted to rake my fingers through his golden hair.  I wanted to feel the smoothness of his cheek against my coarse, unshaven one.  I wanted my hand to travel down the gentle slope of his back until it reached his firm—”

“Okay!  I got it!” came Cosette’s cheerful voice from behind Enjolras.  He was caught unawares by the intrusion and ended up banging his knee against Grantaire’s bedpost.  “Down, boy.  No need to get all buck wild on my account.”

Enjolras roughly rubbed his hands over his face in an attempt to soothe his agitated nerves.  “You startled me, that’s all.”  Judging by the smile planted on her face as she waved the stuffed animal in front of him, she didn’t overhear Grantaire’s confession.

He wished he didn’t either.

“I see you were successful in your task,” Enjolras said once he got his heartbeat down to a relatively normal level.  “It’s been a very long night so I’ll leave you to it.  Goodnight, Cosette.”

He didn’t even wait for her reply.  Enjolras was taking swift strides toward his own room before Cosette could even process his slightly odd behavior.

Curled up on his bed and hugging a pillow to his chest, Enjolras contemplated how he felt about what transpired.  The foremost thought was anger.  Not toward Grantaire, of course.  He could not fault a man for having feelings.  No, Enjolras was only angry at himself; angry that he didn’t step out of the room when Grantaire first started talking.

This had bad idea written all over it.  The handbook—which Enjolras knew like the back of his hand—clearly stated that a romantic relationship between RAs and their residents is grounds for dismissal.  Not that Enjolras was suggesting they even would become romantically involved…was he?

Frustrated, Enjolras ran a hand through his unruly hair.  Grantaire’s previous words came to mind and he suddenly imagined a pair of unfamiliar, yet strong hands replacing his own.  He stopped short, balling his hand up into a tight fist.

This was bad.  This was really, really bad.  Why didn’t Enjolras just leave when he had the chance?  He shook his head because he knew the answer to that already: because he didn’t want to, because he liked the blissful smile on that scruffy-looking, bizarrely-entrancing brunette, because a part of him felt a stirring in his loins when Grantaire let his imagination wander.

Enjolras closed his eyes and willed sleep to come, trying not to think about the smell of whiskey on warm skin or a pipe wedged between a pair of grinning, supple lips.


	6. Why the Look of Startled Surprise

 Bossuet woke up feeling like he’d had the best sex of his life.  Not that his sexual history was all that long—it was roughly a year and a half ago when he lost his virginity to Maggie Hawkins, who dragged him into the back seat of his ’99 Dodge Neon—but there was definitely something to be said about the way his body felt at present.

Well, it’d be a lot more enjoyable if his head didn’t throb in an attempt to move.  He didn’t remember drinking that much, but then again he didn’t remember a good portion of the previous evening.

A gentle stirring behind him told Bossuet that whoever he brought back to his room was still here.  He wasn’t used to the awkward protocol of a (potential) one night stand.  Does he invite them to breakfast?  Do they exchange phone numbers?  Considering he couldn’t remember performing the act paired with the fact that his body’s contentment conveyed how extraordinary it was, Bossuet wondered if it was completely out of the question to suggest a round two.

“Hmm,” came a soft, melodic murmur.  The woman was waking.  He should probably turn over and at least see if he knew her.  Maybe it was Shelly from his Intro to Philosophy class.  She was at the party last night and he was pretty sure she cast a few playful glances in his direction.

The woman currently nestling into his side and sliding a warm hand up his chest was the last person Bossuet expected to see.  “Good morning, Tiger.  That was some night, huh?”

Bossuet couldn’t breathe.  No, really.  It was as if all the oxygen in the room just vanished.  His ridiculous streak of bad luck had come to its grand finale.  Warning bells were going off in his ears though he tried not to panic so he could approach this encounter as logically and honestly as possible.

But, no matter how Bossuet looked at it, Joly was going to get hurt.  He would never forgive him, subsequently ending their friendship.  He sensed the change already.  Bossuet didn’t want to lose Joly.  No, he couldn’t lose Joly.

Musichetta could see the worry in the man’s large, brown eyes.  “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I made a mistake,” Bossuet said, violently shaking his head.  “I made a mistake and I can’t fix it.”

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think,” the olive-skinned woman replied, leaning over to kiss him on the nose.  He should’ve pulled away—refused to allow anymore contact between them—but she was painfully gorgeous.  She had thrown on the green nurse’s smock from Bossuet’s costume.  It was two sizes two big and made her look like perfection personified.  “Everything’s fixable.  Is it about this?  Do you have a girlfriend or something?”

Bossuet leaned his head back on the pillows and stared at the ceiling.  “Not exactly.”  He didn’t know why he phrased it that way.  Maybe because when Joly discovered his betrayal, he would yell and throw things and storm away like a scorned lover.  Or maybe his roommate already knew.  Turning his head to look at the bed across the room, Bossuet ascertained that it had not been slept in—which could potentially mean a number of scenarios.  “You didn’t happen to see where Joly went last night, did you?”

“What do you mean?” Musichetta asked, apparently confused by his question.  “He’s right here.”

Bossuet’s thoughts were so overwhelmingly preoccupied that he didn’t notice (until now) the hand draped over Musichetta’s hip.  It wasn’t her own and it definitely wasn’t his.  He propped himself up on his elbows to examine the person on the other side of the voluptuous woman.  She was right.  It was Joly, sleeping soundlessly and with the faintest smile on his face.

If Bossuet wasn’t panicking before, he certainly was now.  The blankets and sheets were a tangled mess around his limbs and he struggled to get out of them, the success of which ended with him plummeting to the tile floor with a loud thwap.

This startled Joly awake.  He instinctively sat up, bleary-eyed and (ughhhhh) immediately regretting sitting up so fast.  “What?  Who’s there?”

Musichetta giggled.  “You guys are an interesting pair in the morning.  Very lively.”

“Bossuet?” Joly asked, eyes still unable to open all the way because of the intruding sunlight.  His roommate made a sound to indicate that he was there.  “Is Musichetta in our room, or am I still dreaming?”

Bossuet didn’t reply this time—he wasn’t finished processing what had happened and how it happened—so the woman took it upon herself to answer Joly’s question by carefully climbing onto his lap and running her long fingernails against his scalp.  “Does this feel like a dream?”

A shiver shot up Joly’s spine as he finally focused on the woman above him.  She could feel the goosebumps rising on his flesh and it excited her to ignite this response from him.

“I,” Joly started breathlessly, “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

Musichetta smiled sweetly, leaning down to place open-mouthed kisses on his forehead, and then his eyelids, moving down to the corner of his mouth…only to teasingly pull away.  “I’m not gonna lie, I did to.  I mean, you guys are so different from the guys I normally date.  I feel like I can be myself around you.”

Joly would’ve felt flattered and overjoyed by this proclamation if he wasn’t hung up on two words.  “Why did you say ‘you guys’?”

“Not you, too.”  Musichetta removed herself from Joly in favor of resting against the wall.  “Do both of you really not remember what was agreed upon last night?”

The memory of calling out Bossuet’s name only moments ago came flooding back to Joly.  He hazarded a glance around the sparse room until his eyes fell on his roommate sitting on the floor, his head in his hands.  Joly’s eyes grew like saucers.  “You mean we…as in me and you and”—(gulp)—“him…together?”

“Musichetta,” Bossuet finally voiced, steadfast in his refusal to remove himself from the floor.  “As there seems to be a gap in our memories, would you be so kind as to fill us in on how we ended up here?”

“Well, what do you remember from last night?”

As Joly was now going through his initial wave of shock, Bossuet was the only one to reply.  “Joly and I were gonna call it a night when you dragged us onto the dance floor.  And then it’s just black.”

“Alright,” the woman said, picking up where the bald man left off,” so we were dancing and you both loosened up a little more with each song.  Someone came around with shots of vodka in those awesome multicolored test tubes and we indulged in a few.  Then we caught our breath at the bar and had a few more.  I then made a comment about how I liked the shape of your nose, Bossuet, and Joly agreed, but then proceeded to list off every other amiable attribute you possessed.”

Joly turned scarlet.  “I did not!”  Bossuet was equally embarrassed.  “I mean, if I did say something to that effect it’s because I genuinely think he’s a good guy and…well, he is my best friend.”

“And then,” Musichetta continued, because she hadn’t even gotten to the good part yet, “Bossuet reciprocated and I swear I didn’t have a hand in any of it.  There was major flirting going on between you two.”

Bossuet shook his head, thinking he found an angle in all this.  “No, see that’s where you’re wrong.  We were probably just acting like J.D. and Turk with that whole bromance thing because of our costumes.”

“Is bromance code for two roommates who kiss?” Musichetta asked, rather rhetorically seeing as how it silenced Bossuet effortlessly.  “Look, all I know is that we stumbled back here at like two in the morning and I was going to go back to my room but neither of you wanted to let go of my hand.  So, I just went with it.  First, I kissed you, Joly, and then I kissed Bossuet and it wasn’t long before you started kissing each other.  It was a very sensual experience.”

“Yeah, but did we,” Bossuet started, showing his nerves, “like did he…or did I…shit, I don’t know how to phrase this.”

Luckily for them, Musichetta was a very direct, although sometimes crass, person.  “Are you asking me if you stuck it in his ass, or vice versa?”  Joly was shell-shocked, burying his face in between the blankets.  Bossuet’s mocha-colored skin looked somehow pale against the sunlight.  “Rest easy, my dear boys.  There was none of that last night.  Not yet, at least.  It was all hands, and let me just say, our future nurse over here has very expert hands.”

The satisfied smile on Musichetta’s perfectly symmetrical face told Joly that the sentiment was genuine.  His heart swelled with joy at the thought of causing her pleasure.  He wished he could only remember it…although maybe he didn’t.  There was still the uncomfortable issue of using his ‘expert hands’ on his best friend.”

They didn’t say anything for a long time.  Musichetta assumed they’d have more questions and she was more than happy to regale them with details of last night’s festivities.  There was something truly exceptional about last night.  She rattled through her head all of her previous sexual encounters—she wasn’t a slut, she just happened to discover her sexual prowess at a young age—and none of them came close to what her naked body felt like pressed close between these two fascinating men.  They were so gentle with her and it felt so honest and real, not like some quickie in a broom closet.  This experience was all about worshipping each other.  Musichetta crossed her legs to quell the increasing arousal she felt at the memory.

“So, what happens next?” Joly asked softly, disrupting the quiet of the morning.  He still didn’t know how he felt about all this and gaging their thoughts might help him settle on what to do or say.

Bossuet looked up at his friend—his confidant, his nurturer, his sun when things looked bleakest—and a wave of emotion flooded his veins.  “I don’t know, pal.  I just don’t know.”

That was Musichetta’s cue to leave.  She slid off the bed to put on some pants—walking down the hall in her little, white panties was a walk of shame even she wasn’t willing to do.  She found the bottoms to Joly’s blue scrubs on the floor and put them on, the elastic waistband riding low on her hips.  It was kind of nice taking a piece of both of them with her.

“I guess I’ll head back to my room now and let you think this over.”  She reached the door, but paused with her hand closed around the doorknob.  “I want you both to know that I’ll be okay with any decision you make as long as we can still be friends.  Last night was definitely something I would repeat, but if you don’t want to, that’s fine.  You’re important to me…and I don’t use that word lightly.”

Her exit was quiet—it was fairly early and most of the other residents were probably still asleep—and in her wake was the worst silence Joly and Bossuet had ever felt.  They had a lot to talk about, but neither of them knew where to begin.

Joly opened his mouth half a dozen times as if he was going to say something, but not a single word was uttered.  Bossuet picked at a dent in the bedframe, making the whole larger and thinking this was a sufficient way to occupy his time until Joly finally spoke.  He really wanted Joly to say something first.

Everything about this felt wrong.  Whenever Bossuet was down or had a problem, he’d come to Joly.  His attentive roommate would listen and pat his shiny head and share some words of wisdom that always made Bossuet’s burdens a little lighter.  Joly couldn’t do that now, but he wanted him to.  He wanted everything to just go back to the way it was.

Or did he?

Now wasn’t the time to admit it, because this thing was new and not entirely understood, but Bossuet swore he felt a stirring in his gut when Musichetta said that he kissed Joly.  It was weird, he never thought of him in that way before, but he wasn’t whole-heartedly shooting the prospect down either.

Joly knew he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to talk to his roommate—even though the thought of not pouring his heart out to Bossuet left him somehow empty, incomplete.  So, he decided to save it for another time and get back to some part of his normal routine.  He needed something safe, something familiar, and right now it couldn’t be Bossuet.

“I have class in an hour,” Joly voiced, which almost sounded like yelling amidst the silent backdrop.

Bossuet cleared his throat and rubbed a palm over his hairless scalp apprehensively.  “Yeah, I’ve got—I’ve got things to do as well.”

“I’m gonna go shower,” they said in unison, trailing off at the end as they both realized the implication of their words.  Bossuet gulped, Joly blushed.  It was like they couldn’t escape this thing—this nameless, shiver-inducing thing.

“You go first,” Bossuet added politely, even though there were four (curtain-enclosed) shower stalls in the community men’s bathroom.  “My, uh, things can wait.”

Joly nodded before climbing out of bed, only to realize—thankfully, prior to pushing aside the bed sheet—that he was stark naked.  He tried not to visibly react to this knowledge, instead bunching the sheet around his waist and refusing to make eye contact with his roommate as he went to grab some clothes (any clothes) from his closet.  After doing so, he left and headed straight for the bathroom, unable to say another word.

 

 —————-

 

Grantaire woke to a familiar ringtone.  By the third ring he was conscious enough to know that Cosette was the one calling—hers was the only number set to the Power Rangers theme song.  He peeked one eye open to glance at his alarm clock.  **8:23 am.**   Fuck that!  Whatever she needed could certainly wait another three hours.  She really knew better.

Apparently not.  Five minutes later—or maybe less because time always seemed warped when Grantaire slept—‘go, go, Power Rangers’ was blaring against his eardrum again.

“Jesus fucking Christ!”  He blindly felt around the nearest corner of his desk for his phone so he could chuck it across the room—which gave him a weird sense of déjà vu.  Now, a person with Grantaire’s penchant for drinking should be relatively immune to the wretched, morning-after side effects (much like Musichetta, actually).  But no, the 24 year-old had hangovers that, if good and properly drunk the night before, were violent and often calling upon death.

Such ill-favored consequences would be reason enough to stop any normal individual from hiding behind the bottle so habitually, but Grantaire never thought of himself as normal.  Normal was boring and he rejoiced in his idiosyncrasies—even though his ringtone currently sounded so piercing and unwelcome that he wanted to claw at his ears until the damage would strike him deaf.

He finally managed to locate his phone and, instead of throwing it in a fit of rage, considered being civil when answering the call.  “Hey, guess what?  You’re a fucking Nazi and I hope Hitler’s saved a place in hell for you!  Do you even know how early it is?  Seriously, I curse your first unborn child!”  Okay, maybe not so civil.

“I’m intrigued.  What’s the curse?” she asked, unaffected by his harsh words.

Grantaire didn’t hesitate in his reply.  “They’re gonna marry a tax auditor and eat casseroles for dinner EVERY night before watching FOX News for three, whole hours.”

“Don’t put that voodoo on me, Grantaire!  Now I’m gonna have nightmares about this.”  Grantaire heard the faint beeping of buttons being pushed and assumed she was heating up some breakfast item in the microwave.  “And, in answer to your previous question, I know exactly what time it is.  This is when I typically wake up to get ready for my Thursday morning class, and since you kept me up till 3 am dragging your sorry ass back to the dorms, you have to suffer with me.”

A vague, blurry memory of Cosette slapping him awake resurfaced, and then it transformed into an image of her rubbing soothing circles against his cheek.  She always could be counted on to take care of him in those frequently inebriated states—similar to how he took care of her when they were children.

“I thought everlasting friendships didn’t come with a price,” he jokingly replied.  She knew he was grateful.  He didn’t need to say it.

Cosette scoffed.  “Says the guy who cursed my firstborn into a life of conservative monotony.”

“You can’t blame me for that.  My hangovers turn me into a gremlin if you wake me before 11 am.  It’s an unspoken rule.  Also, stop shouting.  It sounds like someone’s shaking a glass jar full of nails.”

“I’ve never hear my voice described that way before,” she said, slightly amused.  “I may have to write that one down.”

“You do that.”  This conversation was getting so utterly pointless.  As much as he loved the woman, his Hyde personality was out to play (god damn alcohol) and there was no guarantee he wouldn’t show up to her room and strangle her in a few minutes.  Except, that would take a considerable amount of effort and Grantaire didn’t want to lift as much as a pinky at the moment.  “Can I please go back to sleep?”

There was a soft sigh on the other end of the line.  “I suppose I’ve tortured you enough.  Oh, can I stop by later to pick up Wicket?  That guy from my Econ class is coming over to study tonight and I’m hoping the sight of stuffed animals on my bed will deter him from trying to make a move on me.”

Another memory from last night surged forth.  He was whining (really, how much more childish could he be?) because he wanted the stuffed animal and then he decided to drunkenly rant about the effervescent Enjolras.  “That’s fine.  Hey, listen, sorry you had to hear me go on about Enjolras last night.  I’m sure by now you never want to hear that name again.”

“There were no such ramblings, good sir.  Unless you’re referring to the barrage of texts I received before I decided to come looking for you.  It’s probably a good thing you didn’t spew any of your usual word vomit considering your Greek god helped me carry you to your room.  I’ll admit, I was pleasantly surprised by his kindness.”

Grantaire scrunched up his face in confusion.  “Oh.  Really?”  His mind fought over focusing on why he would remember talking about his fantasies of the blonde when it didn’t even happen and the fact that this beautiful man cared enough to see him home safely.  He probably shouldn’t read into it too much.  “I must’ve just dreamt that I did.  Everything’s still a little hazy.”

“A little?  Grantaire, you were halfway down the street when I found you because the bartender ran out of whiskey and you wanted to get some more at the liquor store.  And by down the street I mean in someone’s yard, tripping over lawn ornaments.”

Grantaire just smiled and said, “When in Rome.”

There was a pause which meant Cosette was either shaking her head or rolling her eyes—or both.  “I gotta go.  I’ll text you when I’m done with classes for the day.”

“M’kay.”  Grantaire’s thumb had been casually hovering over the ‘end call’ button, so once she said her goodbye it was easy to do.  He tossed his phone back on the desk and rolled over, his cheek making a snug dent in the pillow.  It took 10 minutes for sleep to overtake him again.

 

—————

 

Courfeyrac woke because Marius was a little shithead.  He was planning on sleeping forever, potentially.  He wanted to hibernate like a bear in his room until spring, at least, so he could ignore the drama and the stupid people and especially the pretty boy with paint-spattered freckles that caused an unbearable ache in his chest.

Courfeyrac was just done with all of it.  Sleep was good.  Cocooning himself in a mass of blankets was good.  Marius bursting into his room and sitting on top of him was not.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Courfeyrac yelled, albeit mumbled since half of his mouth was pressed firmly into his pillow.

“Do you happen to know what time it is?” Marius asked with a hint of motherly disapproval added to his tone.

The curly-haired brunette reluctantly opened his eyes so he could properly glare at his roommate.  “Does—it—look—like—I—give—a—flying—f—”

“I’ll tell you,” Marius interrupted, clearly not putting up with any of Courfeyrac’s bullshit.  “It’s after 4 o’clock in the afternoon.  You’ve skipped two classes already.  And I don’t want any of your sass about how it’s creepy that I memorized your schedule because I didn’t.  Jehan stopped by to see if you wanted to walk to class together.”

Jehan.  That unpleasant ache returned. 

They hadn’t walked to class together since before their little (more like colossal) argument.  Courfeyrac missed their walks and the good-humored conversation that came with it.  The pain in his chest relaxed a bit at the thought of Jehan seeking him out—wanting to spend time with him.  But then it came back full force when he remembered that the poet had a boyfriend now.

Montparnasse—with his greasy hair and grabby hands and one-liner comments—was undoubtedly the worst excuse for a boyfriend ever.  It made absolutely no sense why Jehan would choose him.

Courfeyrac pulled one of the blankets over his head.  “I’m not gonna go to my classes anymore.  I’m taking up Grantaire’s philosophy.  Seriously, get off!”

“Alright,” Marius said, taking a step back with his hands raised.  “I was just trying to help you make the right decision here.”  There was a short silence and then, “Does this have anything to do with Jehan and that Montparnasse guy?”

The other man groaned.  “I don’t want to talk about them!  Why are you even here right now?!  Don’t you have other people to annoy?  Go stalk that little, blonde bird of yours or something.”

Marius had no qualms with the topic of conversation veering in this direction.  In fact, he was secretly hoping to sneak it in somehow, somewhere in between his disappointment and concern for his roommate’s behavior.  “I don’t have to anymore.  I got her number.”

“Bullshit,” Courfeyrac responded with an eye roll.

“You know very well that I’m a terrible liar,” Marius said triumphantly—was that a triumph though?  “Therefore, obviously, this is true.  She gave it to me at the party in case I found R stumbling around somewhere.”

Poor, innocent, naïve, little Marius and his delusions.  Courfeyrac shook his head.  “That’s even worse than getting a girl’s number to study.  You’ve got a lot to learn, young padawan.”

“It doesn’t matter how I got her number,” Marius declared defensively.  “The point is that I have it and now have the means to text her—which I did!  Last night!  When Musichetta said she saw R leave out the front door!”

Courfeyrac was rather repulsed by this happy love nonsense.  Love isn’t happy; it’s a farce.  Love is like tug-of-war when you’re on the losing end: being pulled in a direction you’re reluctant to go, staring your fate head on as it stares back like a rabid dog, allowing the thick cord of rope to sear the palms of your hands as you employ a last stitch effort to stand your ground.  In the end, you’re always left sitting in a puddle of mud.

“I mean, her reply was kind of brief,” Marius continued, since Courfeyrac was still absorbed in his own silent ponderings on the subject of love, “but it’s understandable because she looked kind of frantic when no one knew R’s whereabouts.  Speaking of, did you know that he’s like best friends with Cosette?  After all that time I spent begging Enjolras to talk about me in front of her, R was sitting on the sidelines laughing.”

Courfeyrac raised one of his eyebrows.  “I did not know that, but it certainly seems like something our resident drunk would do for selfish amusement.”

Marius nodded, although he seemed to get over Grantaire’s betrayal of the ‘bro code’ rather quickly because he was suddenly pulling his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans and looking down at his roommate pleadingly.  “If I tell you something, Courf, will you promise not to laugh?”

“Marius, you are my friend, and as such I must honestly tell you that I can never make that guarantee.”  Courfeyrac grinned, unashamed of who he was.

Deciding he still wanted his roommate’s input anyway, Marius perched himself on the edge of the bed and gazed down at his lap.  “The thing is, I don’t have that much…experience when it comes to flirting or, well, even just talking to the opposite sex.”

It was almost painful for Courfeyrac to watch Marius admit this like it was some big, undiscovered secret.  “No shit, Sherlock,” he said with an unavoidable snort.

“Anyway,” Marius added—really, it was a skill he was getting quite good at, ignoring Courfeyrac’s mean-spirited commentary—“I normally wouldn’t come to you with this sort of thing but I’m not sure what it means or how I should respond and ‘Ponine refuses to be my ‘girl interpreter’, as she kindly put it.”

If this had something to do with Cosette—which, come on, it has to—Courfeyrac completely understood why Eponine wouldn’t help him.  Her fanciful crush on Marius was as obvious as Grantaire’s alcoholism.  It just wasn’t obvious to Marius.  At some point, Courfeyrac (and the others) wondered if Marius should know the truth because then, maybe, he’d stop unintentionally stringing her along.  “Spit it out, Pontmercy.  I cannot help you if you keep speaking in code like that.”

Marius’ movements were a little more animated after Courfeyrac agreed to at least hear him out.  “I got a text from her this morning.  It says—where is it—oh!  It says ‘Thanks for tracking down Grantaire for me last night.  It was a huge help.  He’s lucky to have such a great roommate.  See you around.’  Well?”

“Well what?” the brunette asked as he begrudgingly forced himself into a sitting position.

“Did you not hear what she said?  ‘He’s lucky to have such a great roommate.’  Clearly there’s a hidden subtext in that.”

This kid’s overactive imagination was going to get him hurt one of these days.  Courfeyrac placed a hand on his roommate’s shoulder and looked him square in the eye.  “Marius, for the love of god, do not read into that.  I promise, she is not sending subliminal messages about wanting your hot bod or how she wants to tattoo your name on her ass.

“But,” he continued when he noted the disgruntled look on Marius’ face, “it does tell us that she thinks your worthy of R’s friendship, which could mean that she wants to be friends with you as well.  There’s no shame in being friends first.  Friendships help you see what’s behind the pretty face—helps you see something wonderful about them that you maybe didn’t notice before.  But once you see it, it stays with you and you suddenly find yourself wanting every part of them, flaws and all.”

Marius was no longer disgruntled, but sad.  “We’re not talking about Cosette anymore, are we?”

Courfeyrac’s nostrils flared as he suppressed the deluge of emotions that wanted to leak out of his eyes and spill woes of heartbreak out of his mouth.  “And time’s up.  Your male-bonding therapy session is over.  Thanks for stopping by. Don’t forget to pay the receptionist at the front.”  He shoved the man heartily and resumed his position beneath the blankets.

“You’ve got issues, Courf,” Marius exclaimed, closing the door behind him as he left. 

Courfeyrac knew he had issues, accepted them even.  But Jehan wasn’t an issue.  He was a cause—a cause, perhaps, worth fighting for.

 

—————

 

 Enjolras didn’t sleep last night.  Not really, anyway.  When he opened his eyes to daylight it didn’t feel like waking up, it felt like he was still stuck in a dream and he had no way of knowing how to come back from it.

After getting out of bed, doing some crunches, and showering—his normal routine—Enjolras had eventually come to the conclusion that everything was going to be fine.  He would go on pretending as if it never happened and Grantaire would be none the wiser since he clearly thought he was talking to Cosette.  Hell, the man had so much whiskey last night, he probably doesn’t even remember thinking he talked to Cosette.

Classes were rather contrite today which almost had him convinced that there was some merit to Grantaire’s philosophy on university lectures—and then he scolded himself because class was supposed to be a Grantaire-free zone and he really needed to stop thinking about the belligerent man if he was going to move past this like he originally hoped.

He grabbed a late lunch in the cafeteria after his last class.  The current dilemma that presented itself was vegetarian riblet or tamales with queso (although, it actually tasted like artificial cheese sauce).  Enjolras wished it was hot sandwich day.  He really liked hot sandwich day, especially the cafeteria lady, Fran, who memorized his exact specifications.

“The tamales are better,” a familiar voice from behind him suggested.  A chill shot up the blonde’s spine and lingered on his neck as the little hairs there stood to attention.  It was inevitable that he would have to face this man eventually, whether he wanted to or not.  They lived on the same floor, after all.

Enjolras reminded himself to keep it casual.  They’re bantered playfully before; surely they could do so now.  “Of course you’d say that.  Your carnivorous habits are easy to observe. The riblets aren’t that bad, though.”

“Oh, come on!  You’re not really gonna argue in favor of imitation meat?  It’s disgusting and is like having extra helpings of veggies on your plate.  It’s hard enough choking down carrots or broccoli.”

“Do you have any aspirations of living a relatively long life?” the blonde asked, turning around to let his glare emphasize his disapprobation.  This was a mistake.  He shouldn’t have made eye contact.  He should’ve just grabbed a riblet—at this point he’d choose it out of spite—and paid the cashier so he could crawl back into the safe solitude of his room.

Grantaire gave him a mocking side smirk.  Enjolras wished he’d stop doing that.  He wished he’d stop making faces in general—it was distracting.  “Why?  Because I don’t like vegetables?”

“Let’s not forget the drinking and the smoking,” Enjolras added arrogantly.

Grantaire ran his long fingers over the scruff on his neck and Enjolras had to force himself to look elsewhere.  He remembered what those hands previously suggested (rake my fingers through his golden hair…travel down the gentle slope of his back until…).  He remembered conjuring the image of his face pressed close to Grantaire’s, the week’s worth of stubble tickling and taunting his own flesh.

Actual thoughts of food were abandoned as Enjolras made a b-line for the fruit stand and grabbed an apple because he just needed to get out of there.  Grantaire followed.

“Speaking of my colorful drinking habits,” the brunette said, wincing a bit, “we should probably talk about last night.”

The implication of his words was troubling.  Did he remember his late night confession then?  Was Enjolras expected to give him a response as to his own feelings?  No, Grantaire wouldn’t put him on the spot like that—at least, not when it came to such personal information.

Enjolras felt a clammy sweat creep onto his face and neck.  This was incredibly…awkward.  He couldn’t imagine how Grantaire felt—having to soberly admit his feelings and come up with the right excuses in case they weren’t entirely reciprocated.  Or maybe that wasn’t at all how Grantaire would handle it.  In all the time Enjolras had known Grantaire, he’s never been concerned with how people viewed him.  It was more likely for Enjolras to react in that way.  Not to say that he had feelings for Grantaire…

…but also not to say that he didn’t.

Nevertheless, feelings were irrelevant because the thing to remember was that nothing could happen between them.  The handbook said so.

“We don’t need to speak of it,” Enjolras said quickly, stopping Grantaire from going into further detail.  “Alcohol, as you should know, is an enabler.  In that case, and that case alone, your actions were understandable.  Let’s just move forward as if nothing happened.”

“Wait,” Grantaire started, feeling as if they were having two completely separate conversations, “what do you think happened?”

Oh, no.  Was he going to say something else?  Now Enjolras felt trapped and he didn’t know how to climb out of the hole he just dug.  “Why did you say we needed to talk about last night?”

Grantaire’s wry smile appeared.  “I asked my question first.”

“Oh, so we’re playing that game now, huh?”

Grantaire snatched the apple out of Enjolras’s hand, ready to hold it hostage until he got the answer he was looking for.  “I think you’re the one playing the game—or at least dancing around the subject.  Just tell me what happened and I’ll leave you be.”

Enjolras pursed his lips.  The disheveled brunette was acting like a child.  This was stupid and Enjolras didn’t have to tell him anything he didn’t want to.  “Nothing happened, other than your usual drunk escapades.  I think I like Cosette a little more now, considering the amount of patience she has dealing with you.  I certainly couldn’t undertake the task on a nightly basis like she does.”

“You are unbelievable, do you know that?”  Grantaire knew Enjolras was hiding something, but he didn’t know what it was or why he felt the need to hide it.  He placed the apple back in Enjolras’ waiting palm, giving up on prodding the information out of him.  “I just wanted to say thanks for helping me home last night.  But I see now that I’m too much of a burden for you so I won’t expect your help again.  Later.”

“Grantaire, wait,” Enjolras said, gritting his teeth together.

“It’s fine,” Grantaire said with a shrug.  He already started walking away.  “I’m used to it.”

The dark-haired man rounded the corner and was out of sight before Enjolras could make an attempt at excusing his terse behavior.

It wasn’t until Grantaire had gone back up the elevator and was nearing his suite door—Cosette waiting outside of it impatiently tapping her foot—that a thought emerged, expanding and worming its way through his skull until his eyes were practically bulging out of his sockets.

Cosette recognized the look instantly, straightening up and showing her concern.  “What’s wrong?”

Grantaire bit his lip to keep it from trembling.  “I think he knows.”

 


	7. Our Time Will Find Us Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Grantaire make a compromise, everyone else is sad or causing drama, but Jehan and Courf finally realize what's been there all along.

Enjolras had always looked forward to going to his debate team meetings, but today he was…distracted.  It was rather obvious what (or, more accurately, who) this distraction was, but Enjolras refused to unfurl his burdens, no matter how often Combeferre poked and prodded him about it.  He had yet to come to a conclusion as to what Grantaire meant to him, so trying to describe this connection to someone else would be utterly fruitless.

The fact of the matter was that Grantaire did mean ‘something’ to Enjolras.  He had realized this the moment the dark-haired man stopped acknowledging his presence in the hallways or the elevator.  It had been two weeks since Halloween.  Two weeks without argument or unintentional flirting that led to downcast eyes and awkward shifts in conversation.  The lingering question Enjolras had been asking himself was why he missed that so much.

The expression on Grantaire’s face when Enjolras referred to him as a ‘problem that he didn’t have the patience for’ was akin to telling a small child that there was no Santa Claus.  He was taciturn, nonplussed, and irrevocably wounded.  Anyone that knew Enjolras was well aware of his severe, often confrontational personality.  Those who had stuck around had accepted it—Grantaire being one of the few.  Grantaire never faulted Enjolras for arguing over trivial matters or completely disregarding emotional responses to situations and it was greatly appreciated.  He was never good at dealing with emotions—his or anyone else’s.

So, it came as a bit of a shock when Grantaire abruptly abandoned their conversation outside the cafeteria.  His words had somehow managed to pierce Grantaire this time, like a dull, rusty knife.  Enjolras regretted the way he spoke to the man almost immediately, but it was always easy to regret the past.  It was another thing entirely to do something about the future.

“What do you think, Enjolras?”  The sound of his own name was enough to remove the blonde from his thoughts, but it did not aid him in remembering what the sophomore, Melissa, had initially asked him.

“I’m sorry, Melissa, I didn’t quite catch that.  What do I think of _what_?”

The young woman readied her speech again, though the understated eye roll was not lost on Enjolras.  “With regard to lifting the restrictions on home owners’ insurance in cases of natural disasters, I thought we could look at statistics of flood damage to properties after a hurricane.  If the number is significant enough we could use it to argue that floods have a direct correlation to hurricanes and therefore should be classified under that coverage.”

Enjolras nodded, retrieving his notes on this debate topic and not allowing scruffy-faced brunettes to distract him anymore.  “If you could get me those percentages by Tuesday I can check their relevance.  Put a heavy emphasis on Gulf Coast states, and make sure to include Hawaii.  I still think there are more key points to address though.  What else do we have?”

“Well, this—”  A knock at the door prevented Jimmy, the only freshman in their small group, from sharing the information he gathered.  Everyone redirected their gaze to inspect the newcomer.  Only two in their party had recognized the man, one of whom did not easily accomplish hiding the mix of shock and elation on his face.

“Everyone, uh, keep brainstorming,” Enjolras announced.  “I’ll be right back.”  They did as they were told, with only Combeferre eyeing Enjolras and his resident suspiciously.

Enjolras conscientiously stalked over to Grantaire.  The older man’s hands were nestled in his coat pockets, his hair slicked back from being combed through after a shower.  At least, Enjolras assumed this was the case.  His hair never looked so meticulously groomed before.  “Hey,” Grantaire said with an awkward twist of his mouth.

“Hey,” Enjolras mimicked, still avoiding direct eye contact.  It was nice to see him though.  Two weeks without Grantaire’s companionship felt a lot more like two months.  “How are you?”  It was a dumb question, but starting the conversation off with a commonplace greeting felt safer than unambiguously interrogating Grantaire about Halloween.

“You know,” Grantaire started with an exaggerated shrug, “same old, same old.”

Enjolras wasn’t sure if Grantaire’s reply to that question was favorable or not.  A throat cleared and Enjolras turned around to see several of his teammates (Combeferre, included) not engaged in conversation but instead glancing curiously at their leader and the other man.  Reminded of his current surroundings, Enjolras felt compelled to ask another question.  “Why are you here?”

“Because I said that if you came to the Halloween party, I’d lend a hand in your debate club,” Grantaire said, stoic and unemotional.  “A deal’s a deal.”  There was a biting finality to his tone, as if nothing more would be said on the topic.

But Enjorlas, however, was never one to be easily dissuaded from what he thought was right.  “Grantaire, you don’t have to do this.  Halloween didn’t turn out how either of us expected so it’s not necessary for you to—”

“A deal’s a deal,” he repeated, quite adamantly.

This was a side of Grantaire that Enjolras did not like.  Where were the efficacious smirks and the offbeat hand gestures he’d use to emphasize a story?  Where was the complacent cynicism?  Strangely enough, he preferred _that_ to this stony, reluctant participant.  The Grantaire he knew would only come here if it was where he truly wanted to be.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre voiced from behind him.  “Perhaps we should reconvene the meeting another time.”

The blonde was stuck between a rock and a hard place.  He didn’t want the rest of his team thinking his conversation with Grantaire was more important than prepping for a debate conference that was only a week away, but he also couldn’t leave things the way they were with Grantaire.  Who was to say when his next opportunity would be, considering how often Grantaire took the stairs to avoid him? 

“No,” he finally answered, “we need to utilize all the time we have left.  I want to have a strong argument ready for this debate since we’re in the final rounds of the local tournaments and that means bigger and more engaged crowds.  Our main goal is to get _them_ to support our position.  Combeferre, take over for me for a few minutes.  I need to…go interview a potential new candidate for our team.”  He tugged on Grantaire’s coat sleeve and led him out of the room, closing the door in case their voices would carry.

“Hold on a second,” Grantaire said once they were alone, “you didn’t say anything about an interview.  Besides, you know better than anyone that my ability to instigate conflict is just as good as my ability to drink freshmen under the table.  Well, except for Musichetta.  That girl’s like a robot or something.”  Grantaire pantomimed a robot with his arms and Enjolras sighed because, god, he missed him.

The sigh turned into a thin-lipped frown when Enjolras remembered what he had to say next.  “There’s no interview.  I just…I mean, we haven’t had a chance to discuss Halloween yet and, well, you’re here and I’m ready to tell you what happened that night.”

Grantaire stared at some plaque on the wall (awarded to someone he didn’t know nor gave two shits about) to distract himself.  “It’s okay.  You don’t need to tell me.”

“Yes, I do,” Enjolras said, determined to just get this thing over with.  It would be like ripping off a Band-Aid.  “I know I was cruel and unfeeling that day in the cafeteria, and even though my words were inexcusable, there is a reason why I behaved that way.”

“No, you’re not getting it.”  Grantaire’s voice grew quieter, almost unsure of what was coming out of his own mouth.  “You don’t need to tell me because I remember now.”

Enjolras looked down at his shoes, paying considerable attention to the discoloration on his shoelaces because…what else was he supposed to do?  “Oh.”

Grantaire sucked in a deep breath.  “Yeah.”

“So…”

“So.”

It got worse from there.  Enjolras shoved his hands in his pockets while slowly rocking on the heels of his shoes—shoes that were rather dirty and scuffed up and maybe it was time for a new pair.  Grantaire was fiddling with a paper clip he found in his coat pocket.  He straightened it out and bent it back into shape so many times that it eventually broke.  When the rough edge scraped against the pad of his thumb he didn’t even flinch.

Enjolras huffed, which quickly turned into a disbelieving chuckle.  “This is ridiculous, right?  I mean, who says we can’t act like normal human beings about this?” 

It was never a good idea to throw around the word ‘normal’ when speaking about Grantaire.  He humored the blonde, nonetheless.  “Alright, so what’s protocol for accidentally—or rather, drunkenly—telling a guy you like him when you have no real inclination on how he feels about you?  I mean, other than his complete abhorrence for how much you drink.”

“Grantaire, I—” Enjolras started, palms sweating, “I’m your RA and that—”

“Jesus, Enjolras,” the dark-haired man interrupted quite harshly, “I’m not a total idiot!  I heard what you said to Marius about it being against regulation for RAs to date residents.  I’m not asking you to go out on a date with me, so your precious handbook can rest easy.  All I want to know is how _you_ feel.”

That was a loaded request.  How did Enjolras feel about Grantaire?  There were things the blonde felt in the man’s presence (as well as his absence) that could not be said for any other person.  But was that really something Grantaire needed to know at the moment?  “How I feel is beside the point.”

Grantaire was tired—tired of this whole mess, tired of arguing about feelings when they could be arguing about the debt crisis or foreign policy.  “Enjolras, please.  Just tell me.”

“This isn’t a black and white matter, okay,” Enjolras said, the level of his voice rising.  “It’s honestly best if I don’t say anything at all because both scenarios have potential consequences.”

“How so?”

Enjolras massaged his temples.  “If I say that I don’t like you in that way, you’ll pretend it’s fine and that we can go back to being friends, but the rejection might eventually eat away at you and you’ll come to resent me—to the point where you may move out and never speak to me again.”

Grantaire scoffed.  “That’s not true!”

“You haven’t spoken a word to me in two weeks,” Enjolras added knowingly.  “You knew that I was uncomfortable with your…confession and, in turn, you avoided me like the plague.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes but gave no verbal reply—which meant he knew Enjolras’ assessment had a modicum of accuracy to it, but he didn’t’ want to give him the satisfaction of admitting it.  After a short length of time, Grantaire urged his Apollo to continue, giving him a pointed stare.  “And if you do have feelings for me?”

Enjolras momentarily clenched his jaw.  “If…if I were to…entreat such an idea as being possible, we would obviously have to wait until my graduation to allow things to…progress.  However, I’m fairly certain that no matter how many times I remind you of the repercussions involved for being caught romantically linked to a resident, you would still be persistent and I would either begrudge you for that or wind up losing my job.”

“Are you saying,” Grantaire said, clearing taking offense, “that you think I’m some kind of lost puppy dog that will start humping your leg if you so much as pat me on the head?”  There was a distinct possibility that this portrayal had a certain degree of accuracy, but Enjolras didn’t need to know that.

Enjolras’ brow furrowed.  “That is an odd analogy, one that I’m not familiar with.  But, to further support my reasoning, I have had a significant amount of time to get to know you and what I have observed is that although you don’t put much effort into your education, you certainly put a lot of effort into getting your way.”  This assessment didn’t make Grantaire feel any better, but Enjolras pressed on.  “Listen, I’m not intentionally trying to debase your character, I only mean to show you that your knowledge of my feelings—whatever they may be—are not worth the risk involved.  So, consider your question moot for the time being.

“But,” Enjolras continued, not giving Grantaire anymore opportunities to interrupt him, “here’s what I can tell you.  Contrary to what you might believe, I want to be your friend.  Grantaire, I hated the last two weeks.  I’m not sure if you’re fully aware of this, but our conversations are often the best part of my day.  You challenge me in a way no one else can, and though I may outwardly act irritated, I am grateful for the way your rebuttals make me sharper and constantly ready to counter them.  I mean, ask Combeferre how much my debate discourses have improved since I met you.”

Grantaire’s side smirk came out of hiding.  This prompted an unwelcome fluttering in the bottom of Enjolras’ stomach, but he ignored it and just continued to stare at the dark-haired man because a part of him missed it—missed seeing his favorite cynic even a little bit happy.  “Well, one of my life goals was to inadvertently help someone excel at publicly disputing generally-accepted principles so I guess I can finally cross that off my list.”

Enjolras’ reactionary smile was inevitable, though he fought it off for as long as he could.  “I’m glad to see your perfectly-timed sarcasm has returned.”

“Perfectly timed, huh?  I suppose it is a gift,” Grantaire responded with a look of indifference.  “I’ve recently added it to my resume under ‘useful skills’.  Someone out there’s bound to appreciate it.”  His smirk faltered a little as his tone become serious once more.  “So…we’re friends?”

The blonde nodded.  “And to prove my commitment to this friendship, I’ll even go as far as giving Cosette a night off from _drunk Grantaire duty_.”

“You would be better equipped to accomplish this act of generosity if you just gave me your number,” Grantaire suggested, a bit bashfully.

For some unknown reason, Enjolras momentarily forgot that their friendship was never set in stone before, which evidently meant that they didn’t have a form of contact other than walking down the hall and knocking on a door.  “Very well.  Although, I really hope I don’t regret doing this.  Having this number does not mean you can abuse it.  I don’t want you getting in the habit of sending me texts in the middle of the night unless it’s an emergency.  Understood?”

Grantaire nodded, making a mental note of the blonde’s request.  “No late night booty calls.  Got it.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said with an exasperated sigh.  “This is not a joke.  You think I’m argumentative now, but you haven’t seen me when unjustly woken up before my alarm goes off.  Now, back to our current situation.  As I said before, you are in no way obligated to join the debate team simply because I attended that party.  The deal was never officially struck, so consider it null and void.  I will, however, add that I believe your disparagement towards most policies and practices would be a great asset to our team.  But, again, that is entirely up to you.”

Grantaire returned his phone to his coat pocket—after Enjolras entered his number—with a lighthearted chuckle.  “How can I say no to an offer like that?  Especially coming from a guy who managed to turn me down while simultaneously showering me with unpretentious praise.  It appears we both have some very unique gifts.”

Another sigh escaped Enjolras’ small, almost feminine, mouth.  Sighing seemed to be a natural reaction when conversing with Grantaire.  “Are you determined to make this as awkward as possible?”

“Until you don’t find it awkward anymore,” the older man affirmed confidently.

 

 

“Let’s go introduce you to your teammates,” Enjolras said, gently nudging Grantaire back toward the room.

 

 

“Courf?” Eponine voiced tentatively, softly rapping on his bedroom door.  Ever since Marius had decided it was a good idea to sit on top of the man, Courfeyrac had remembered to lock his door.  “Courf, darling, can you come out and talk to us, please?”

Courfeyrac had lost count of how many sunrises and sundowns it had been since he decided to shut himself off from the world.  Well, he didn’t stay in his room _permanently_.  He had to eat (sometimes) and pee (often, because of the booze) and Marius even tricked him into showering (once…about a week ago).  But, for the most part, Courfeyrac was holed up in his room, rotating between different pairs of sweatpants and watching bad reality shows.

His suitemates cared for him as best as they could.  When Courfeyrac would come out of his dark, depressing hole to use the restroom, Marius would sneak into the man’s bedroom and tidy up, taking as many dirty clothes as his arms could carry down to the laundry facility.  Grantaire was rather munificent as well.  Since Courfeyrac was a freshman and primarily taking core classes, Grantaire managed to ensure his roommate didn’t get kicked out of school by slipping into his large lecture halls and taking tests for him.  The 24 year-old had taken most of these classes before, and although his insight may not be getting Courfeyrac straight As, just showing up and writing _something_ kept Courfeyrac from failing.  Courfeyrac was unbelievably lucky to have such devoted friends, and as soon as he got out of this funk (whenever that may be), he would pay them back in kind.

Eponine knocked on his door for the fifth time.  Both she and Joly were seated on the floor outside of Courfeyrac’s bedroom talking sweetly, making promises, saying anything to get the man to stop his reclusive behavior.  Marius sat on the couch on the other side of the room, thoughts and actions absorbed by the phone cradled between his hands.  He had long since given up on using friendly words to prod his suitemate out of his room, resorting to trickery instead.

None of them had seen Courfeyrac act this way before.  It was odd, disconcerting behavior for most people, but exponentially so for their ordinarily wild, energetic friend.  They missed his spontaneous urges to drive long distances for some exotic restaurant (“Is anyone else craving some good Jamaican jerk chicken?”).  They missed Classy Ladies Night—it didn’t feel right doing it without Courfeyrac, so they just watched cheesy horror movies instead.  Everyone on floor 5A was kind of up in arms about this change.

Joly looked positively distressed.  “Why hasn’t Jehan come over to talk to him yet?” he asked quietly, pointing to the door behind him.  “Does he not know that Courf’s in this state because of him?  Are they really both so blind to what we’ve all witnessed with our own eyes?”

“It’s none of our business, Joly,” Marius said impassively, still plugging away on his phone.  He briefly smiled at something that the other two were not privy to.

Eponine glared at her freckle-faced friend.  “It most certainly is our business. We live with these people.  They are our friends.  Their suffering becomes our suffering.”

Marius addressed Eponine without even looking at her.  “That’s very poetic of you, ‘Ponine.  I’m sure Jehan would appreciate the sentiment.  But the fact of the matter is that they have to _want_ to communicate with one another.  Let them deal with this in their own way.”

The hard glare never left Eponine’s face.  She hastily stood up and marched over to the spot directly in front of Marius.  This close proximity finally convinced the man to tear his eyes away from his phone—if only for a moment.  “Don’t think I’m that easily fooled, Marius Pontmercy!  You’re just saying that because texting Cosette—which you’re clearly doing right now—has been the highlight of your life and you don’t want your roommate’s heartache bringing you down.  This is a new low, Marius.  I might’ve expected it from Grantaire, but not from you.”

“Hey, I’ve done more than most, okay,” Marius said defensively.  “I touched his dirty underwear—which, may I remind you, was worn for several days in a row!  And I bought him food when he refused to eat.  I’m a freaking saint!  So, I’m sorry if I’m a little tired of being Courf’s butler.”

“If you don’t want to babysit him anymore, then do something about it!  The sooner you get off your ass, detach yourself from that god forsaken phone, and find a way for Courf to stop watching _Real Housewives_ reruns, the sooner you’ll go back to doing your own laundry!”

“Guys,” Joly voiced, leaning his head back against the wall with his eyes closed.  “I don’t think shouting is helping Courfeyrac in any way, shape, or form.”

Eponine was breathing heavily after her little tirade.  The anger was visible in the redness of her cheeks and the tight fists that lay at her sides.  “Joly’s right,” she said, once she could breathe normally.  “But so am I.  If you really don’t want Courf like this anymore—which, I think we can _all_ agree upon—then you need to help us do something about it.  Chatting with Cosette about the weather or how difficult your Calc HW was does not mean you two are in a relationship yet.  You went out to lunch with her and Grantaire twice!  Stop romanticizing every little interaction because it’s not what you think it is.  Help your friend first, work on winning over Cosette after.”

Okay.  Maybe Marius was aware of his selfish attitude.  Maybe he wanted to focus on the way his heart fluttered every time Cosette ended a text message with a smiley face instead of watching his friend’s self-destruction over a lost love.  Courfeyrac was Marius’ proof that not all love was happy, and he didn’t like that.  He wanted to resist its existence for as long as possible.

“Alright,” Marius finally said, bowing his head shamefully.  Not a moment later, his phone buzzed to life.  Cosette was responding to his last text, which posed the question: _Nickelodeon or Disney?_   They’ve been doing silly games like that just to get to know each other better.  He glanced up at Eponine, who was giving him a warning look.  “Okay, but let me just tell her what’s going on so she doesn’t think I’m suddenly avoiding—”

The petite woman lunged forward and snatched the phone out of his unsuspecting hands.  She then hopped over the small coffee table and as far away from Marius as possible, already brushing her thumbs over the small keys frantically.

“’Ponine, what are you typing?”  Marius was terrified.  The brunette could have been texting any number of things to Cosette, which was why he had to put a stop to it.  He came at her from behind, but she was quick and held the phone out of his reach.  “Give it back, ‘Ponine!  This is a dangerous game you’re playing!  Don’t you dare write anything I’m not willing to send!”

“Quit being such a baby, Marius!  Ouch!  Get off!”

At this point, they were practically tackling each other to the ground.

“Just—let me—see—what you’re—typing!”

Limbs were tangled, elbows jabbed, and hands stretched in a furious attempt to take possession of the smartphone, but when the front door to the suite suddenly opened, Marius and Eponine froze from their positions on the floor and looked up to see who was walking in.  It wasn’t Grantaire.  It wasn’t even Gavroche.  It was a pair of laughing individuals that caused Joly’s heart to thump loudly against his chest.

The laughter quickly died when they both zeroed in on the pale young man seated against a wall.

“Oh.  Hey, Joly,” Musichetta greeted after tremulously glancing at Bossuet.  The bald man looked equally uncomfortable, except his expression evoked a certain sadness.  “I didn’t expect to find you here.  We just stopped by to see if Grantaire wanted to go to Quigley’s.  The _Beerfest Quarterfinals_ are tonight and I thought he might want to partake in the festivities.”

Joly didn’t’ want to look at them anymore, so he stared down at his folded hands instead.  “He’s not here.  I don’t know where he is.  Has anyone else seen him?”

Eponine managed to disentangle herself from Marius—throwing his phone at his chest in the process—and stood up.  Being Musichetta’s roommate meant that she was privy to certain information, like a three-way that got incredibly awkward incredibly fast.  Of the three, she was probably closest to Joly and it was easy for her to deduce that the sight of Bossuet and Musichetta together would cause him to have heart palpitations (which Joly would later diagnose as a potential atrial fibrillation and maybe he should have someone run a few tests just to be safe).

“I think Gavroche said he was going to some Club meeting,” Eponine answered, directing everyone’s attention away from Joly, “although, I don’t believe that for a minute.  I can’t see Grantaire electing to do something academic.  There’s a good chance he’s already at the bar.”

Musichetta nodded slowly.  For someone who was the physical embodiment of confidence, this young woman currently found herself a bit unhinged.  A part of her felt guilty for not being able to stay away from this ‘thing’, but when you all live on the same floor it’s kind of hard not to.  But it wasn’t as if she was really doing anything wrong.  The two roommates still hadn’t discussed how they felt about what happened on Halloween, and she tried to give them space (she really did), but Bossuet looked lonely and so they talked and going to Quigley’s tonight was just a way for him to lift his spirits a bit—nothing more.  “Okay.  I’ll try texting him again.”

“I’m sure you’ll both have fun regardless,” Joly said impulsively.  He knew it was best not to say anything at all, but his emotions took control of his speech.

Musichetta grimaced.  “Of course, if you’re not doing anything, Joly, you’re more than welcome to join us.  It didn’t take my friend that long to make L’Aigle’s fake I.D. so I could easily give him a call if you’d like.”

Joly was about to shake his head no until something she said hotwired his brain.  He looked up at Bossuet, his eyes imploring and full of remorse.  “I thought you hated when people called you that?”

“I,” Bossuet started, gulping and rubbing the back of his neck, “I do.  I mean, I did…but Musichetta thinks the name suits me well.  She happens to know a lot about bald eagles, interestingly enough.”

Joly didn’t find it the least bit interesting.  Instead, the current situation was almost as awkward as the morning Bossuet and Joly woke up in bed with Musichetta.  Emotions were high, nothing that they wanted to say was being said, and on top of it all they felt like they were in some low-budget stage performance since Eponine and Marius were in the room with them—eagerly staring like a couple of anxious spectators. 

The silence still hung in the air.  Musichetta didn’t think now was a good time to go into why she liked L’Aigle's real name.  Joly was still processing how often these two must have been in cahoots if there were fake I.D.’s and bald eagles involved.  Eponine wanted to console Joly in his fragile state but feared moving, not wanting to disturb the already thick tension in the room.  And Marius…well, Marius managed to quietly return to texting Cosette while no one was watching.

Several moments of indecision passed in which Joly wanted to tell them to leave and that he had no interest in spending an evening with a couple of backstabbing liars in a seedy bar ( _Mixed nut bowls are honestly one of the most unsanitary decisions an establishment can make.  I mean, come on!)_ but he didn’t. 

No one did anything, actually, until someone unexpectedly decided to grace them with his presence.

“Courf!” Eponine shouted as the man himself prized his door open and walked out into the living space.  He looked like shit.  No, seriously.  It was probably the worst any of them had even seen Courfeyrac—smooth, confident playboy Courfeyrac.  He was dressed in a loose grey t-shirt that had several stains of god knows what.  His plaid pajama pants were slightly askew and wrinkly but he didn’t care enough to fix them.  His hair was matted in some areas, sticking up in others, and was definitely greasy.  No amount of confidence in the world could make someone attracted to him in his current state.  This was certainly not the Courf they knew.

“Oh, good, you’re not dead,” he said, rather hoarsely.  He scratched his stomach, exposing the flesh at his waistline as he did so.  “I was getting used to all the shouting.  I thought something might’ve happened when you all suddenly stopped.”

Eponine was afraid that he was going to retreat back into his room now that there was no cause for concern, so she hastily stepped forward and placed one of her small hands on his arm.  “How are you?  I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever?  Do you want to talk?  We all missed you.”

Courfeyrac looked around to see a general consensus of (mostly) enthusiastic nods.  Joly’s smile looked forced though—the smiles he normally emitted were bright and infectious.  “I don’t want to talk,” he said resolutely.  “I want food.”  And with those final words he left the suite, as well as five friends with gaping mouths.

 

 

 

 

Courfeyrac was starving.  He didn’t make as big a deal out of it in front of the others because he associated not having an appetite with moping and he wanted to show some kind of consistency.  Not to say that this was an act, of course.  Courfeyrac was truly heartbroken.  Thinking of Jehan…and then thinking of Jehan and Montparnasse…well, it was devastating.  But it was also something Courfeyrac had never experienced before and he didn’t necessarily know how to portray it.  He got the lazy part down, but food was something that he needed on a regular basis—regardless of his emotional instability.

He paid the cafeteria worker and gave a grumbled ‘thanks’ before unwrapping his turkey sub and taking a huge bite out of it.  Food was his fuel and it was delicious and he felt a bit calmer and…wait a second.  Is that Montparnasse?  More importantly, is that some blonde bimbo under his arm instead of Jehan? 

After getting a closer look, Courfeyrac discovered that yes, yes it was.

The icing on the cake occurred when Montparnasse grabbed the girl eagerly and kissed her on the lips.  He eventually parted ways with her and headed toward the elevator.  Jehan didn’t deserve this.  Courfeyrac didn’t want them together in the first place—and it was primarily for this very reason—but having (eventually) accepted that they were, indeed, together, Courfeyrac was offended that Montparnasse would consider even doing this to Jehan.

Courfeyrac got to know the poet fairly well in the last few months—even regretted not getting to know him sooner, but the past is in the past.  One thing that he did observe about Jehan was that he only believed in monogamous relationships, which meant that Montparnasse’s little fling was not something he would take lightly.  Jehan would be furious and heartbroken, and since Courfeyrac had recently gone through a similar experience, he did not want Jehan to have to go through it as well.

Montparnasse made him sick, so much so that he lost his appetite and threw the rest of the sandwich in the trash.  Jehan didn’t deserve this and Courfeyrac was going to make sure Montparnasse understood that.

He took the elevator back up to 5A and headed straight for Montparnasse and Jehan’s dorm.  He knocked until the raven-haired man (decked out in leather from head to toe) finally answered.  “Geez!  Can’t a guy put on some pants before opening the door?”  Monty sighed when he noticed who was on the other end of the door.  “What do you want, Courfeyrac?”

“Is Jehan here?”

“No,” Montparnasse said nonchalantly.  “He’s at some poetry thing.”

That was the answer Courfeyrac wanted to hear.  He didn’t waste any more time on casual conversation.  He slammed his fist against the door to open it further and charged in, grabbing Montparnasse furiously by the collar of his leather jacket.  “Where the fuck do you get off, treating Jehan like that?  He’s not one of your play things that just gets tossed aside when you’re bored of him!  He’s fragile and has more feelings than both of us combined!  You’re a pathetic excuse for a human being and you don’t deserve him!”

Montparnasse was feeling something between annoyance and fear.  Courfeyrac obviously had no idea what he was saying at the moment—clearly he was taking drinking tips from his roommate, Grantaire—but at the same time, Courfeyrac was taller than him and had a stronger build.  The hands around his collar looked ready to inch up and wrap around his petite and extremely pale neck.  “Can I at least know what I’ve done to offend you and, apparently, Jehan?”

“Are you really that stupid?” Courfeyrac asked incredulously.  Montparnasse refused to dignify that with a response.  “I was just downstairs, Montparnasse.  I saw you with that girl—the blonde with the big boobs and tight jeans.”

What happened next only increased Courfeyrac’s rage.  Montparnasse smiled—that son of a bitch actually smiled.  “Oh, you mean Amber?  Yeah, she is a looker.  She also has a delightfully talented tongue.”  It was as if he was intentionally trying to egg Courfeyrac on.

“I will NEVER understand what Jehan sees in you!” Courf shouted, tightening his grip on the man’s jacket and getting threateningly close enough to push anyone’s boundaries.  “You’re no good for him!”

“Then who is?” Montparnasse asked, surprisingly calm considering he felt like a ragdoll underneath the other man’s hands.

“I am!” Courfeyrac shouted before actually thinking about the words.  But it was out now, and there was no taking it back.  Several breaths passed before either of them realized Jehan was standing in the doorway, back from his Late Night Poetry Reading.  Courf wondered how long the petite boy had been standing there, if there was any reason for him to attempt to cover his tracks.  The strangely bewildering look in Jehan’s eyes said otherwise. 

And so the whole, inevitable truth tumbled out like a tidal wave.  “At least, I believe I can be good for him.  Or rather…he would be good for me.  No, not good.  Perfect.”  Courfeyrac still had Monty by the shirt collar, his grasp slackening a little, but he was much more comfortable saying these words with Montparnasse as a buffer. 

“Listen, dude,” Monty said, prying Courfeyrac’s hands off of him in the awkward silence that followed his confession, “I don’t know you, and I certainly do not appreciate anyone inviting themselves into my own personal space, but I kinda know my roommate, so all I have to say is…it’s about fucking time.”

The mood shifted.  Courfeyrac was gobsmacked, Jehan was blushing, and Montparnasse was grinning from ear to ear like the clever little bastard he was.  “You mean…wait, did you plan all this?” Courfeyrac finally asked.

“Hey,” Montparnasse replied, the epitome of cool, “I’ll admit that little Jehan is pretty enough to pass for a chick, but I like tits.  Always have, always will.  And even if I felt differently, Jehan and I would never happen because I can’t be with someone who incessantly spouts sonnets about someone else.”

“Monty, stop!” came Jehan’s unexpectedly trenchant voice.

Montparnasse just shook his head.  “Enough with the dramatics, Prouvaire.  I did my part, it worked with tremendous success, and now you two love birds can stop secretly pining for each other and start groping each other’s asses like you really want to.”

Jehan suppressed his mortification enough to steal a glance at Courfeyrac.  His beautiful, dark-haired Courfeyrac was currently a little worse for wear but still managed to take his breath away.  The man was gazing back at Jehan intently.  There were questions and answers in his eyes, though none of them probably matched up just right.  There was so much that needed to be said between them, but for Jehan, those words were still hidden amongst lines and lines of poetry and prose.  He didn’t know if he had the strength to let his mouth do the talking for once.

Jehan wasn’t able to contemplate this possibility any longer because a disturbance appeared in the form of their RA.  “Guys,” Enjolras started, his annoyance evident, “I really must insist that you lower your voices as ‘quiet hours’ started an hour ago.”

“Shut it, Enjy!” Courfeyrac and Jehan cried in unison.  It would’ve been comical had the scene not been so emotionally charged.  With a pronounced scowl and a mumbled “no respect”, Enjolras trudged back to his room.

Another silence fell and the room seemed more crowded than before and (damnit!) Monty wanted out fast.  “Well,” he said, awkwardly rolling on the balls of his feet before snagging his smokes and keys off the dresser, “since no one likes being a third wheel, I’m gonna head out to Greek Row and see if any of my favorite gals are bored of their frat boys yet.”

Courfeyrac abandoned his staring contest with Jehan to glare at Montparnasse.  “I still have a bone to pick with you.”

Monty patted the man on the shoulder, using his other hand to place an unlit cigarette between his lips.  “Whatever you say, dude, but once you two talk through your shit and are at it like rabbits, you’ll be singing my praise.”  He left to catch the elevator before Courfeyrac could get another word in edgewise.

“So, I guess we should talk,” Courfeyrac managed to choke out.

Jehan’s eggplant purple boots were shifting beneath him nervously, scuffing up the tile floor as a result.  “That’s probably a wise decision.”

“Why did—”

“I didn’t—”

They both paused, silently apologizing for the miscommunication.  “You go first,” Courfeyrac beckoned.

“No, you go,” Jehan replied earnestly.  “I’m kind of desperate to know what you’re thinking right now.”

Courfeyrac let out a low grunt.  “What I’m thinking?  Shit, Jehan!  I’m thinking this whole thing got way out of hand when it was absolutely unnecessary.  I mean, why’d you do it?”

“It wasn’t my idea,” the petite boy said, a hint of pleading in his dejected voice. “Monty thought that if you saw us together, your jealously would indicate how you felt about me, which was stupid, of course, and I realize that now—I realized it at the party, actually, but Monty convinced me that even if you started showing interest in me then that it was just to make me another notch on your bedpost and I didn’t want that.  I still don’t.”

Courfeyrac was somber now, the initial shock and anger slowly fading away and revealing his true feelings.  “What _do_ you want, then?”

Jehan crossed his arms and looked away.  “Don’t make me say it, Courfeyrac.  This is hard enough as it is.”  As habits go, being mad at Courfeyrac was always easier than admitting the truth.

“If you don’t tell me,” Courfeyrac said, looking quite serious, “then I will just have to confiscate your journals and read through every single one until I get my answer, because I know you, Jehan.  If you got a fake boyfriend just to see how I reacted, then those sonnets Montparnasse mentioned have something to do with me.”

Jehan’s next breath came out shaky.  “What am I supposed to say, Courf?  That I’ve harbored romantic thoughts about you since freshman year of high school when you shoved Preston Howard into the lockers for picking on me?  That playing wizard’s chess and sharing music playlists these last few months have made me realize that I’m in love with you?  That I hated seeing you going down this lonely, destructive path when all I wanted was to be that shoulder for you to lean on and the hand you wanted to hold?  Is that what you wanted to hear?”

The dark-haired man tried to swallow but an invisible lump in his throat prevented him from doing so.  It got harder for him to breathe and the tingling sensations that spread from his fingertips to his stomach were overwhelming.  “Only if it’s the truth.”

“I may have experience keeping my feelings locked up, Courfeyrac, but lying about them is something I don’t have the skill for.”

“Well,” Courfeyrac started, inching closer to Jehan (until their noses connected like opposite ends of a magnet), “I, on the other hand, happen to be an excellent liar, but something tells me that’s all going to change with you.”

Jehan’s voice was weak and breathless.  “What makes you say that?”  Their lips were so close; it would hardly take any effort at all for them to kiss.  Sweet Jesus, why weren’t they kissing yet? 

“Because you’re honest with the ones you love.” 

Jehan bit his lower lip and whimpered, which was all the encouragement Courfeyrac needed to press his mouth against the other man’s.

The kiss was desperate and greedy.  It was two months of sexual frustration and two weeks of painful avoidance rolled into one.  They attacked each other’s pliant lips, hands clinging and pulling their bodies closer until they were flush against each other.  Courfeyrac was licking the inside of Jehan’s mouth, diving in and making up for lost time.  Jehan was reveling in the feel of Courfeyrac’s tongue—and how it caused a spark to shimmy up his spine—while his only thoughts were “finally” and “yes, dear god, I hope he never stops”.

But Courfeyrac did stop—his pursuit of Jehan’s mouth, that is.  His newly moistened lips, instead, traveled down to mark the petite boy’s jaw, and then his neck, and even further down to his collarbone.  Courfeyrac had instantly found Jehan’s sweet spot (the juncture between his neck and clavicle) as the boy’s excited shiver pulsated throughout his entire body.  Courfeyrac grinned against his sweet-smelling skin.  “I can’t believe we weren’t doing this months ago.” Courfeyrac straightened and stared into Jehan’s dark orbs.  “I take that back, I can’t believe we weren’t doing this four years ago!  Christ, Jehan.  Beautiful, exquisite Jean Prouvaire.  There’s so much I want to say to you.”

“Me too,” Jehan said dreamily.  “And we have all the time in the world to talk…after you shower.  I hate to say it, but you smell awful.”

Courfeyrac laughed to hide his embarrassment.  “Yeah, I’m not gonna lie, I’ve been in a bad place lately.  I’m surprised you even let me kiss you when I smell like dirt and sweat and you smell like…what is that?”  He sniffed the man’s skin.  “Peonies?”

Jehan smiled.  “Magnolia Blossoms.  But we can expand your knowledge of flowers after you’ve taken a shower and changed into a fresh set of clothes, at which point I will have Thai food waiting for you back in my room and we will spend the rest of the evening talking and I won’t let you leave until tomorrow morning.”

“I like this plan,” Courfeyrac said with a grin.


	8. The Poorly Drawn Believers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone whose sticking with this! I honestly have no idea how long it's going to be or even if I'm going to make the ending fluffy or depressing as shit. Let me know your thoughts!
> 
> I'm hopefully going to continue trying to update this once a week, but if I'm a little behind it's because I've started a Courf/Jehan ficlet that won't get out of my brain so bare with me. Also, this coming weekend will be pretty busy b/c I'm going to a panel to see Blagdog! Eek! Second time in the last 3 months. So happy about it!
> 
> Love you all and your precious comments! ; )

Grantaire did not participate in the debate tournament the following Wednesday.  He couldn’t have even if he wanted to (which he honestly didn’t anyway) because their director sanctioned their request though the ADA weeks ago and the chosen debaters were Enjolras and Melissa.

Again, Grantaire really didn’t mind.  He helped in lots of other ways, providing his own insight on the tricky bastards that run insurance companies and how they cleverly skew their wording in contracts to back out of any liability.  Grantaire had to deal with his mom’s medical and auto insurance a lot as a teen because they used to constantly deny her coverage due to ‘fine print’ statements in her contract or payment plans—all those words kind of jumbled together on the page so she didn’t often read them.  Grantaire proved his worth on the team early on and the other members were grateful.  More importantly though, he made Enjolras happy, and in the end that was all he really wanted.

Enjorlas.  It was quite apparent that he was the strongest public speaker out of all of them, the opposing university included.  Grantaire sat in the back of the rather large panel room and found himself falling for the man a little more with every impassioned word he articulated.  He wasn’t the only one staring at the severe blonde in total awe though.  Enjolras captivated everyone with such ease, such grace, such honest compassion for what he hoped to communicate.

It was quite obvious that the resolution would be awarded in their favor (which meant they would move on to sectionals), but the real astonishing part was listening to the attentive observers whispering about calling their insurance agents later to see what stipulations might be hidden in their coverage.

He did it.  Enjolras achieved what he desired, which was more than just winning some college debate.  No, Enjolras had made a difference.

They had to take two cars to get to and from the college that held the tournament, so after Enjolras returned all of their materials to his briefcase (of course he had a briefcase), he climbed into Combeferre’s Toyota Prius Hybrid with Jimmy and Grantaire in tow.

“Alright, Enjolras, I gotta ask,” Grantaire finally jabbed as Combeferre merged onto the highway, “what’s it like being the lovechild of Martin Luther King Jr. and Margaret Thatcher?”

The blonde rolled his eyes as he began loosening the tie that was all but constricting his neck.  “How did I know that was not going to be a serious question?”

“Okay, so maybe that was an unrealistic example—Hilary Clinton and Obama, then.”  Jimmy giggled and Combeferre smiled.  Enjolras, however, was not in the mood to humor the cynic until he actually made his point.  “All jokes aside though, I am being quite serious about how god-like you are when you get up in front of that podium…and subsequently think ‘I don’t need a fucking podium’ as you slide forward to give the audience an unobstructed view during your speech.  I mean, I thought I liked listening to you talk when it was just us, but when you’re given a crowd, it’s like something triggers in your brain and you want them to feel how you feel, understand what you know.”

Enjolras was blushing unabashedly.  Luckily, Combeferre saved him from responding to such a flattering, heart-thumping comment. “Would you believe I practically had to force him to join the debate team during our sophomore year?”

“Not in the least,” Grantaire replied, his eyebrows on the verge of receding into his hairline.  “Enjolras was clearly born for this type of thing.  I mean, no wonder he’s a Poli Sci major.  When he runs for office one day, I may actually decide to act upon my right to vote.”

“Politicians are too easily manipulated and corrupted so I could never elect to be one of them.”  Enjolras’ stern reply left no room for argument.  He could talk about politics for hours on end, but politicians were a whole other ballpark.  It was easy for Enjolras to redirect the conversation because another part of Grantaire’s assessment was a disturbing confession that the blonde must have misheard.  “Wait, you’ve never voted?”

The dark-haired man tilted his head and crookedly smiled at Enjolras’ strained expression.  “Of course you get testy over that bit of information.  No, I’ve never once turned in a ballot.  Actually, I‘ve never even registered so I was technically never given any ballots.  My logic is simple: why vote for someone you don’t believe in?”

This was apparently an unacceptable reply because the blonde optimist quickly retorted with, “But not all voting revolves around filling seats in office.  There are laws and ordinances to be passed that depend on the people’s judgment.  We are the jury for our own future.”

“Yes,” Grantaire started, rolling his eyes at the (adorable) naivety of Enjolras’ faith in the power of the common man, “and in a court, a judge can overturn a jury’s verdict in relation to insufficient evidence or relevant law.  The same goes for politicians.  Do I really need to bring up Governor Schwartzenegger using his veto power against gay marriage in California?  The people only _think_ they make a difference if they happen to agree with their state representatives.”

With the tie absent, the tension in Enjolras’ neck was even more prominent and he was on the verge of arguing Grantaire’s analysis when Combeferre intervened.  “I think you’re missing the bigger picture here, my friend.”  His voice had a calming authority that guided Enjolras back down to a more level-headed state of mind.  “Grantaire says that he has never once voted for something or someone, but that if the opportunity were to arise, he might vote for you.  That shows extraordinary faith in your character.  We all believe you have the power to accomplish remarkable things.”

“Totally,” Jimmy chimed in from behind Enjolras.  It was easy to forget the freshman was around because he spoke so infrequently.  Why did he join the debate team again?  “Your debates are so real.”

“That’s because he never allows the ADA to stick him with a side he does not support,” Combeferre said.  “I don’t think any other college student has made as many phone calls directly to the association or marched up to their offices in complaint over being given the proposition side for ‘the allowance of local government to regulate library inventories’ so they’re all a bit afraid of him.”

Enjolras shook his head stubbornly.  “That is a slight exaggeration of the facts, Combeferre, not to mention quite presumptuous of you considering grown men and women make up the association and I cannot see them fearing me.  Although, I would like to add that I mail them a list of topics that I refuse to speak on at the start of each season, so their blatant disregard for me inability to lie in a debate conference was wholly upsetting and they needed to understand that.”

“You are a rare breed, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, an amazed smile on his face.  “I’m starting to think all this debate team stuff is just child’s play for you.  If you’re so adamant about only speaking on your beliefs, why don’t you just start your own club?  It can be dedicated toward ‘educating the people’, as you say, as well as ‘fighting injustices’.  You might actually get your citizens to listen more often if you were a little more proactive about this sort of thing.”

Combeferre placed his hand—the one not controlling the steering wheel—on his friend’s shoulder.  “Well, Enjolras, you refuse to listen to me or Feuilly on this subject, but can you deny it holds no merit still when someone who has only known you for three months can see it as well?  You talk of change and metaphorical battles to be won, but your words are in desperate need of action.”

“Ferre, this is not the time or place to discuss this,” Enjolras said dismissively.

“It never is,” Combeferre replied knowingly.  “At any rate, I was not the one who initiated this train of thought.  I was merely lending my support for Grantaire’s suggestion.”

Enjorlas sighed, staring out the window.  “You said that you understood my reservations.” 

“To a certain degree.”

This carefully coded conversation between Combeferre and Enjorlas made Grantaire a bit perturbed.  He started to feel like a third wheel—and, yes, he had already forgotten that Jimmy was in the car, sitting across from him.  “Uh, is someone going to fill me in?  Or am I not invited to the exclusive secrets club?”

Combeferre focused on the road for a while before shooting a questioning glance at Enjolras.  “Let’s just say—”

“Combeferre.”

“Let’s just say,” Combeferre continued, ignoring his friend’s warning tone, “Enjorlas has a rational fear of media attention.”

Grantaire tried to make a connection between Combeferre’s statement and his own, but he just couldn’t figure out what the media had to do with Enjolras forming a club.  “Okay, well I have a rational fear of cockroaches.  Have you tried killing one of those fuckers before?”  Grantaire cringed.  “But that’s not what we were talking about.  I want to know why Enjolras won’t head up a political activism club.  It would just be a college club comprised of ‘nobody’ college students.  I don’t think you’re in danger of attracting any media attention there.  Unless you plan on starting riots and vandalizing government buildings…which kind of sounds awesome.  I’m in.”

“What?”  Enjolras was beginning to think he was now spending _too_ much time with Grantaire because he grated his nerves all the more.  “I never said anything about—we’re not going to vandalize—no, we’re not even having this discussion anymore because I’m not starting a club!  I don’t know how many times I actually have to say ‘no’ for you to get that through your thick skulls!” 

The car was silent for a few moments, the occupants shifting their gazes awkwardly.  Grantaire’s gaze landed on Jimmy— _that’s right he rode back with us, man that kid’s quiet_ —who looked pale and was gripping the door handle guardedly.  Enjolras probably terrified this little freshman with his pointed words many times before.  He was like Marius…only with less of a backbone.  Grantaire nudged the kid playfully.  “Hey, Jimmy, $20 says that I can make Enjolras burst a blood vessel.”  Jimmy looked apprehensive, his only reply being a silent shake of his head.

Enjolras’ pulse returned to normal—well, what was normal for him, at least.  “That’s not funny, Grantaire.”

“Well, there’s gotta be something that could make you laugh or even relax a bit because you are almost as tightly wound as you were November 1st.”  Grantaire expected Enjolras to turn around and glare at him menacingly for mentioning that day, but he didn’t expect a pleading element to accompany the look.  So, Grantaire was kind enough to spare him for further humiliation.  “You know, when I saw you and you were freaking out about elections coming up.  At least that’s all over with, right?  But seriously, why don’t you come out with Bahorel and me tonight.  We’re checking out a new bar.  It’s called the Musain.  Combeferre, you’re more than welcome to join us.  Sorry, Jimmy, but being that you’re underage and all…”

Jimmy just shrugged.

“I can’t,” Enjolras quickly replied.  “Those posters I’ve been putting up?  You know, the ones that Courfeyrac had gleefully taken down to tape to the floor so that everyone’s dirty shoeprints got all over them?  I think I preferred mopey, heartbroken Courfeyrac.  Anyway, the lecture is tonight at 8 pm.  I will be discussing how to avoid college debt and survive student loans during the economic downturn, as well as what the projected job market will look like once they graduate.”

Grantaire snorted.  “Wow.  No wonder Courfeyrac took those things down.  You don’t actually believe people are going to show up, do you?”

“He only got his hands on a few of them, but he doesn’t have access to every floor like I do so I think enough people were able to see—”

“I meant,” Grantaire interrupted, “that people probably won’t show up because that sounds boring as fuck.  I know it’s like a requirement for RAs to do these programs or something, but you can have a little fun with it.  If you want college kids to get off their asses and away from Facebook or whatever self-absorbed social networking site they’re attached to, then you gotta choose a motivator.  The failsafe options: food, booze, and sex.”

Enjolras scoffed.  Combeferre had just parked so he waited to get out of the car before responding.  “This is isn’t a party, Grantaire, it’s an educational lecture.” 

“I’m not telling you to throw a rager.  I just think your flyers would’ve been a lot more effective if you put “free pizza” in big letters.  Do what you have to so you can get them in the door, than let your superb oratory skills win them over.”

“These students don’t realize how insignificant their degrees are gonna look by the time they start applying for jobs,” Enjolras ranted, “so it is in their best interest to attend.  Those who are concerned about their future will come to learn more, I am sure of it.”

Grantaire had bumped heads with Enjolras far too many times for one afternoon, so he didn’t push it further—though he secretly knew he was right.  “Whatever you say, o’ mighty one.  I’m gonna grab some grub from the cafeteria so I’ll catch you later.  Sorry I won’t be able to come to your lecture.  I’m sure it will be quite ‘educational’ for everyone involved, even you.”

Enjolras knew there was a hidden meaning there but he had no interest in decoding it.

 

 

Grantaire’s meaning was, unfortunately, understood several hours later as Enjolras sat in the empty meeting room, located on the first floor of Tower A, with his hands holding up his drooping head.  No one came.  Literally, not one single person.  Did Courfeyrac steal his RA keys and remove the flyers from every floor when he wasn’t paying attention?

It was fruitless for Enjolras to continue making excuses for his current solitude.  Grantaire was right.  No one was interested enough to come in the first place.  Enjolras was an uncompromising stick in the mud and Grantaire was the fun one that could easily coerce a bunch of people into hanging out with him.  They would all be at the bar by now, drinking and laughing, while Enjolras continued to sulk in his bitter loneliness.  He wondered if Combeferre was out with them too…

Enjolras’ phone rattled in his pocket.  It was a text message.

GRANTAIRE: How’s the event going?

That smug bastard was just trying to get a rise out of Enjolras, so he left the question unanswered and returned his phone to the back pocket of his jeans.

“Something told me you wouldn’t answer my text,” came a voice near the entrance that was all too familiar.  “Call it a hunch.  So, I thought I’d come check it out for myself.”

“Did you come here to gloat?”

“I never said I wanted to be right,” Grantaire said candidly.  “I’m just keenly observant.  This is a college campus, Enjolras.  They attend enough lectures during the day.”

The blonde leaned back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck vigorously to work out the knots.  Grantaire was right about something else: he needed to relax.  But it was not easy to remain idle when the country was in a downward spiral.  “I really thought I wasn’t the only one who cared about the state of our economy.”

Grantaire pulled up a chair next to Enjolras, turning it around to sit on it backwards so his arms could rest against the frame.  “They probably just want a few more years of not having to care, before they get a job with a salary and have to pay a mortgage and no longer have the means or qualifications to defer student loan payments (let’s be real about _why_ I’m still in school).  Believe me, they’ll care then.”

“But you see,” Enjolras started, the passion growing as Grantaire watched Enjolras’ eyes change because of it, “that is exactly why they should be educated now, before reality sucks them into a life of taxes and mediocre benefits.”

Grantaire sighed, tilting his head at the fair blonde.  “It really means that much to you?”

“Is it not obvious?”

“Oh, it’s obvious alright,” Grantaire replied with a smirk.  “I just wanted to hear you say it.  I don’t know if you’re aware of this but your eyes turn like multiple shades of blue whenever your impassioned feelings can no longer be subdued.  It’s very entertaining.”

“And of course, I’m thrilled to be a source of entertainment for you,” he replied, deadpan.

Grantaire laughed, a bit more smug than usual (which was saying something).  “Enjolras, sometimes you just need to relax.”  There was that word again: _relax_.  “You’ll miss out on a lot of what the world has to offer if you continue to analyze every little imperfection it contains.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes.  “Says the man who has no motivation to graduate and discover where he belongs in this world.”

It didn’t happen often to Grantaire, but sometimes Enjolras could hit a nerve.  “Don’t assume that you understand my situation,” Grantaire said gruffly.  “I just wanted to offer my advice because I have a feeling it’s quite painful to be you, walking around all day long with that scowl on your face.  There’s no need to pick apart my failings.  And anyway, it’s not that I don’t have a motivator.  I have several, but timing is everything, dear Enjolras.  I’m just waiting for the right time to make my mark in the world.”

Enjolras had no real intention to attack Grantaire and, consequently, was guilt-ridden after having done it.  There was just something about Grantaire that always set him off like this.  The car ride back to school this afternoon was a shining example.  He couldn’t even explain to himself why he did it though.  “I’m sure you do have your reasons, and they are none of my concern.  We’re just two very different people, I guess—kind of like opposite ends to a coin.  One day, perhaps, I will come to accept that.”

This notion was rather pleasing to Grantaire, evidenced by the endearing smile on his face. “I hope so too.”  He still kept smiling, smiling like he knew something that Enjolras did not.

Eventually, giving up on analyzing the brunette’s meaningful look, Enjolras redirected the conversation.  “I wonder if my Hall Director will make me organize another even since this one ended up being a bust.”

“I wouldn’t call it a bust,” Grantaire said, glancing at his phone after it buzzed for the eighth time in the last 15 minutes—not that Enjolras was paying particular attention but if Bahorel and the rest of them wanted Grantaire to go back out to the bars with them, then he should just go.  “You got one of your residents to show up, and I do feel rather enlightened after our riveting discussion.”

“Yes, but we do this on a daily basis, so I don’t really think it counts.  Plus, there might be a requirement somewhere in the handbook about obtaining more than one participant.”  Enjolras was distracted from what his program requirements were when several chatting voices could be heard coming down the hall.  Some whispered, others didn’t give a shit how loud they were being, but most importantly, some of the voices sounded very familiar to Enjolras.

Grantaire smiled even brighter now.  “I might be able to help you with that as well.”

For the third time that night, Enjolras realized that Grantaire was right.  Timing was everything.  Grantaire timed this so perfectly that it was actually quite astounding.  The first to walk into the almost desolate room were Eponine, Marius, and little Gavroche, all talking animatedly.  Recognizing her RA and Grantaire, Eponine elbowed Marius (rather roughly) and turned back to the hall.  “See!  I told you guys this was the right room!”

It was then that Musichetta entered, followed by Jehan and Courfeyrac, disgustingly attached to each other.  They had only been together for 6 days, and already Grantaire was nauseated by the amount of cute he had to witness. At the moment, their elbows were linked and their fingers were interlaced, Jehan clutching their clasped hands to his chest.

Courfeyrac stopped short and looked up at Grantaire.  “Woah, man.  Where’s the pizza?  I distinctly remember you texting something about pizza.”

“It’s on its way,” the 24 year-old replied.  “In the meantime, can you guys start pushing the tables together?  We’re expecting a few more people.”

“We are?” Enjolras asked, still shocked that there was anyone here to begin with.  From what Courfeyrac said, it seemed to have all been Grantaire’s doing—and suddenly the constant buzzing of Grantaire’s phone made sense.

Grantaire nodded.  “It appears that you get to regale a group of college students with your superior knowledge after all.”

After all the tables and chairs were arranged, the rest of this so-called group arrived.  Combeferre and Bahorel were both holding several boxes of pizza—which caused Courfeyrac to bang his fist against the table excitedly—while Feuilly and Cosette were holding bags full of soda bottles, plates and napkins. 

Cosette happened to pass Marius on her way over to an empty seat.  “Hey, Gavroche,” she said sweetly, as he was seated next to the freckle-faced man.  “Hey, Marius.  How are you?  I feel like we haven’t   talked in a few days.  Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine,” Marius said curtly, not even making eye contact with the blonde-haired beauty.  She continued to stand there, as if waiting for further explanation, so Marius pulled out his phone and pretended to be busy with checking his email or looking for something on Wikipedia. 

Cosette just furrowed her brow.  “Okay.  See you later then.”  She left to go sit next to Combeferre.

Gavroche laughed outright, but lowered his voice when he spoke.  “You’re an idiot, Marius, if you think that’s going to work.”

“What do you mean?” Marius asked fretfully.

Gavroche gave the man a very ‘Gavroche’ look—there’s really no other way to describe it.  “Oh, come on!  You clearly think that avoiding Cosette will make her realize how much she misses you because that’s what happened with Jehan and Courfeyrac.  Honestly, if I were you, I would not be comparing my relationships to those two.”

“Whatever,” Marius replied with a pout before reaching over the boy to grab a plate.

Grantaire was staring at this collection of people from his spot in the back of the room (next to Enjolras).  Grantaire’s friends and Enjolras’ friends all meshed into one group.  They were introducing themselves to those they didn’t know, passing 2 liter bottles of Pepsi, arguing over who got the last slice of the pepperoni pizza, and laughing at some stupid story that either Bahorel or Courfeyrac was sharing.  It was nice, seeing them get along so well and thinking that this could be a regular thing.

The scruffy brunette hazarded a glance at Enjolras, to see if he was doing the same thing.  He wasn’t.  Enjolras was staring at Grantaire, quite fixedly.  Grantaire could have easily been turned on in that moment had he not been so concerned with what that stare meant—because Enjolras had never looked at him that way before. “What?” he finally asked.

“Did…”  Enjolras was having a hard time finding his voice.  “Did you do this for me?”

Grantaire was blushing feverishly.  Obviously he couldn’t tell him the truth: that he would do anything for Enjolras and literally had to bribe all his friends to come here just because he wanted to make his blonde god happy.  “Well, I may have felt guilty for blatantly saying that your lecture sounded boring and no one would show, so I just sent out a mass text.  They all came of their own volition though.”  A slight lie, but he had a feeling most of them would be glad they ended up coming before the night was through.

“Why?”  That was all Enjolras could say.  That was all Enjolras wanted to say.  He wanted to hear Grantaire talk, wanted to know what the man was thinking and see if he could understand why he deserved such kindness from the one person he yelled at the most.  After all the times Enjolras sneered at Grantaire’s excessive drinking habits, refused to accept Grantaire’s cynical philosophies, and ignored Grantaire’s requests or suggestions, the brunette still stuck around.  But it wasn’t just that anymore; now he was being a considerate, caring friend.  So…why?

Yes, Grantaire had admitted to having romantic feelings for Enjolras, but do feelings of that caliber really warrant such selfless generosity?  Something was missing.  There was a piece to this puzzle—this mysterious man—that Enjolras was not aware of.

“Because, Enjolras,” Grantaire said slowly, deliberately, “I may not believe in much, but I whole-heartedly believe in you.” 

There was a sudden ache in Enjolras’ chest.  Not a dull ache, but an ache that latched itself onto his heat and pushed against his ribcage.  He was taking deeper breaths now because the feeling was so overwhelming, as if something wanted to burst right out of his skin.  It hurt, yet simultaneously felt wonderful, empowering.  He wanted to do so many things in that moment, things his rational mind would never allow.  He wanted to embrace Grantaire so tightly that there wasn’t a bit of space between them.  He wanted to tug at his curly hair and his worn t-shirt fiercely, possessively.  He wanted to bite and lick the lower man’s lip until it flushed, swelling with blood.  It was in this moment that Enjolras realized how desperately he craved all of it.

But what he wanted was, thankfully, overshadowed by his need for rational thought and decision.  He would do none of these things…not yet at least.  “I don’t know what to say.”  This was the God-given truth.  Enjolras was at a loss for words on how to properly show his appreciation of Grantaire’s faith in him.

“Do not say anything, not to me at least.”  Grantaire tugged on Enjolras’ sleeve to lead him toward the table of friends and the blonde had to stifle the heat that generated near his abdomen at this insignificant, little bit of contact.  Grantaire found two empty seats at the head of the table.  “Your audience is anxiously awaiting their leader’s address.”

Enjolras thought that was a poor choice of words because he was just here to give an educational lecture, nothing more.  But then, once Grantaire took his seat, everyone stopped their light-hearted chattering and fixed their gazes on the tall blonde standing before them.  There it was again—that sense of power.  He liked it, possibly needed it, and for once he found himself thinking _consequences be damned!_ Enjolras did have a message (or two, or 300) that he wanted to send to the people, and the eager, bright-eyed students before him presented itself as the perfect opportunity to start.

Just before Enjolras opened his mouth to speak though, Grantaire quickly scanned his eyes over the table of friends and asked inquisitively, “Where’s Joly and Bossuet?”

Musichetta rested her cheek in her palm as a bright smile formed on her face.  “They’re talking.”


	9. Today, I Became a Realist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry, sorry. I know I said I would get out a chapter a week (and then I skipped last week) but...George Blagden. That is all.
> 
> Anyway, this chapter was going to end with a Jehan/Courf moment but I decided to get this out as soon as possible, which means the next chapter might be finished sooner rather than later! 
> 
> Toodles and kisses!

Awkward conversations are the worst.  They leave room for lengthy, unnerving pauses, create insecurities over the right words to say, and possess the power to make your surroundings feel so expansive yet utterly suffocating at the same time.  That was how Joly felt at present; aimlessly wandering in a boundless, empty field yet finding the air around him unbearably limited.

Maybe he was just coming down with something…

No.  For once in the pre-med student’s 18 years, he was _not_ going to blame airborne toxins for why his hands were clammy and his heart was beating at an increased frequency.  He felt ill because this was it; this awkward conversation would drastically alter how the rest of the year would play out—for better or for worse.  Joly still didn’t know if he was ready to talk about Halloween or the fact that he was green with envy when Musichetta and Bossuet went out to the bars together, but one moment they were all heading down to the conference room because Grantaire said Enjolras needed their help, and the next Bossuet was grabbing his arm and stopping him from getting on the elevator as he mumbled softly, “we need to talk.”

So, here they were, sitting on the edge of their respective beds, incapable of uttering a single word.  Bossuet was the one that prompted this need for private conversation, so it was only natural for him to start.  But he didn’t.  Instead, the bald man kept his hands busy (like always) by carelessly picking at a hangnail on his thumb.

Joly couldn’t contain himself any longer.  “You’ll get an infection doing that.”  He hopped off his bed to retrieve the fingernail clippers from his first aid kit—it’s really unwise to question why they were in his first aid kit, so let’s just say he had his reasons.  He casually walked over to Bossuet and grabbed the hand that was marred with a torn cuticle.  Whenever Joly was in ‘nurse mode’, nothing fazed him.  For a second, the two roommates actually believed that everything could go back to normal.  Bossuet could go on making reckless decisions that got him hurt and Joly could continue treating the man’s wounds and smoothing out his insecurities.

But whether they thought they could pretend or not, things between these two friends could never be the same as it was before.  Joly playing nurse may not be new, but the sensations that tingled the skin on Bossuet’s wrist as Joly pressed his warm fingers there _were_.  How could Joly tend to his thumb so calmly when Bossuet felt like his entire body was on fire?

Unless…

Unless Joly wasn’t plagued with the same silent longing that Bossuet had fallen victim to.

Though there was initial hesitancy, Musichetta ended up being a great listener.  It was weird—drudging up unfamiliar memories of Halloween—but he quickly discovered that Musichetta saw no conversation as _off limits_.  Bossuet had told her that he loathed to think of never speaking to Joly again and she resolutely articulated that open communication was the best path toward a healthy relationship, be it friends or lovers.  It was her gentle nudge that got him to finally sit Joly down and have this talk.

Except, he still wasn’t talking!  There was no doubt in Bossuet’s mind that Joly was his best friend, had been since the last three months of their acquaintance.  So, why was it so difficult now to speak the truth?  Nothing was going as planned.

“There,” Joly said with a note of finality, dropping his roommate’s hand.  “That shouldn’t irritate you anymore.”  The brunette opened his mouth to say something more—a recommendation to put ointment on his cuticle, perhaps—but then his whole body language changed, shoulders slumping as he released a cumbersome puff of air.  “I hate this.”

“Me too,” Bossuet replied, fighting the urge to reach out for the pale hand that hung loosely at his roommate’s side.  “I miss…I miss talking to you, being able to say whatever’s on my mind.  We really were J.D. and Turk, always there for each other.  And then…”

Joly walked away, finding considerable distance to be a much needed thing.   “And then we lost control of ourselves.”

“See, but that’s what I don’t get.”  The bald-headed man stood up but didn’t dare move toward Joly.  Not yet, at least.  “What were we controlling before that night?  Losing control implies that we always had these feelings and alcohol somehow stopped us from suppressing them.”

“Do you believe that’s true?”  the brunette asked, back turned to his roommate as he stared out the darkened window.

Bossuet was much closer now.  Joly could feel the man’s hot breath prickle the sensitive skin at the back of his neck.  “I can’t answer for you.”

Joly whipped around, gazing at the dark-skinned man intently.  “But you could answer for yourself.”

“So could you.”

Joly was livid.  “Why are you turning this back on me?  Why do _I_ have to be the one to say something first?  You brought me here to talk, remember?”

“Yes, I did,” Bossuet replied, the volume of his voice rising to match the med student’s, “because we haven’t spoken in weeks and we’re _fucking_ roommates!  Sorry, I know you hate that word, but I’m just so…Joly, I need to know how you feel about Halloween.  If you never want to bring it up again, that’s fine, as long as we can go back to being friends.  But if you do…”

Another uncomfortable pause, one that couldn’t possibly have come at a worse time.  “If I do what?  You can’t just end a sentence like that, Bossuet.  Or do you prefer to go by L’Aigle now?”

The man rubbed a stiff palm over his shiny head.  “Why can’t you just let that go?  The only reason I talked to her was because you wouldn’t talk to me!  You weren’t around and I had to know if she thought you might feel the same way as I did.”

“Which is?”

Erupting like a volcano, Bossuet’s reply rushed out of his mouth, leaving no room to consider what he was actually saying.  “That though I still can’t remember a goddamn thing that happened Halloween night, I know that I thoroughly enjoyed it and I can’t stop trying to remember it and I want it to happen again so I can memorize the way you and Musichetta feel next to me.” 

Bossuet was breathing heavily now.  Joly gulped and then stared.  He stared at his roommate wordlessly for quite a while, which did not comfort the bald man in the least.  It was a slow torture, not knowing what Joly made of this confession.

“Please say something,” Bossuet practically begged when Joly still remained mute on the subject.  “If this has distressed you in any way, I need to know.  If you need space, I’ll find a new housing arrangement immediately.  If you—”

“If I want to kiss you?” Joly interceded softly, just above a whisper.  His cheeks were flushed and this was crazy and happening so fast, but his question was asked in earnest.  “What then?”

Bossuet swallowed the invisible knot in his throat.  “If…if you are sure that is what you want, I suppose I would say that…I am more than happy to oblige.”

Joly was emboldened by his roommate’s words and surged forward.  Lips were devouring lips and any qualms either of them had melted away.  It felt good being this close, being in each other’s warmth.  Bossuet wanted to bury himself in Joly’s neck; Joly wanted to let his hands expertly glide over the ridges of Bossuet’s glistening scalp.  They wondered if this kiss was like before, if they really could recreate that beautiful, passionate moment.

The blacked out memories of Halloween caused both men to pull away at the same time.  Joly was panting slightly and Bossuet wanted nothing more than to lay his hand against the man’s chest, to feel Joly’s heart pound wildly and know that he was the cause.

“That was nice,” Joly said once his breathing returned to normal.  When the look on Bossuet’s face faltered, he quickly amended his words.  “Like really, really nice.  I definitely want to do it again.  The only thing is…well, I feel like something’s missing.”

The bald man knew exactly what Joly meant.   It was a great kiss, but he had this feeling in his gut that it could be so much more.

In unison, Joly and Bossuet looked at each other as hopeful grins appeared on their faces.

“Musichetta.”

 

 

\------------------------

 

Enjolras’ lecture goes even better than expected.  Grantaire hoped that everyone in attendance would at least quietly listen as they munched on their pizza and took giant gulps of soda.  Instead, they shouted when they were enraged and asked questions about what could be done to secure their future.  It was easy for Grantaire to forget that he wasn’t alone in his admiration for the well-spoken blonde.

Sometime later, Joly and Bossuet made it down to the conference room to join their friends.  It was a struggle for Musichetta not to look over at them and try to gage what happened from their expressions.  In the end, she didn’t have to because both men grabbed unoccupied chairs and placed themselves on either side of her.  It wasn’t until she felt them both simultaneously reach for her hands under the table that she grinned like a lovestruck idiot.

They were her boys now, and she did not intend to let them go anytime soon.

It was nearing midnight, and not one of them had left in favor of sleep.  Everyone was more at ease than they were several hours prior.  Gavroche had opted for sitting _on_ the table now, his elbows resting on the crook of his knees.  Courfeyrac was indolently twirling a lock of Jehan’s hair around his finger.  Feuilly, Eponine, and Enjolras were engaged in a productive, yet non-argumentative discussion regarding the poor state of inner city schools.  It just felt like everyone belonged.

Cosette was the first to remark on it.  “You know, I’m kind of jealous of your floor, Enjolras.  My residents never hang out like this.  I might even stop by floor five more often now that I know so many of you.”

Some of Marius’ soda went down the wrong pipe, and he coughed and sputtered until he was red in the face.  Eponine involuntarily rubbed soothing circles across his back as she quietly glared at the woman who caused Marius to inhale sharply as he was drinking.

No one else paid much mind to it—other than a brief sideways glance—so Enjolras picked up the conversation where it left off.  “You’re welcome to them, Cosette.  But I’d watch out for Courfeyrac if I were you.  Nothing is safe from his ever-reaching grasp.”

“That’s all fine and dandy, but that plan doesn’t include us,” Feuilly stated, pointing to himself, Combeferre and Bahorel.  “We should really just do something like _this_ once a week.  It’ll be a chance for us to spend time together and talk about current events or student concerns.”

Enjolras narrowed his eyes.  “That sounds an awful lot like a club, Feuilly, and I believe I’ve exhausted that topic enough for one day.”

“It’s true,” Grantaire piped in from beside Enjolras, “I was considerably exhausted after listening to him prattle on about crooked politicians and voting and unjust stipulations in homeowner’s insurance contracts and blah, blah, blah.”

Enjolras looked like a wounded puppy and, hot damn, it was attractive.  “But you helped with my arguments against property damage limitations in the event of a natural disaster.  And you said you hated politicians as well.”

Grantaire grinned.  There was a moment where he just stared and Enjolras stared back—it was subtle and innocent enough, but not from where Cosette and Combeferre were seated.  “I’m just fucking with you.  _Enjolras_ prattle is my favorite kind.  You should know that by now.”

The blonde chose that moment to be suddenly fascinated by the wall art on the other side of the room in an attempt to hide his smile from Grantaire.  Again, Combeferre observed this and, taking advantage of Enjolras’ blissful state, chose to breach the previous topic once more.  “It doesn’t have to be a club, Enjolras.  It could just be as Feuilly said; a gathering of friends discussing present day issues that are not given enough consideration in classroom settings.  By simply educating each other, we’ll be making a difference.  We all want to believe in a prosperous future as much as you do.  So, educate us.”

There were more than a few head nods as Enjolras glanced around at his companions.  It was precisely what he wanted; a chance to share his knowledge with individuals without drawing too much unwanted attention to himself.  Education was the most efficient way to transform a generational movement.  It was a stepping stone that could open their eyes to the world’s glorious potential.

But Enjolras was getting carried away and he could feel everyone’s eyes on him as they awaited his decision.  He chanced a look at Grantaire.  The scruffy brunette often said a lot with his eyes.  At the moment, he looked complacent, empathetic.  Enjolras had the distinct impression that whatever he decided on, Grantaire would have his back.  It was a comfort he never again wished to be without.

“On one condition,” Enjolras stated assertively, taking in the eager looks from his fellow comrades.  “Bahorel is explicitly prohibited from naming our group.”

The other RAs began sniggering at the memory Enjolras incited.  Feuilly was the one who spared the rest from further confusion.  “Oh gosh.  Okay, when we went through RA training, each of the dorms had to come up with a team name and Bahorel thought it was be amusing to abbreviate **C** ommunity **O** rganization for **C** ollege **K** ids’ **S** uccess.  Our hall director has had a not-so-secret hatred for Bahorel ever since.”

There were more giggles around the room as they realized what that implied—and Bahorel shrugged like the cheeky bastard he was—but there was one still in the dark.  “I don’t get it,” Marius voiced.

“Think about the acronym, buddy,” Eponine said, giving him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

Marius skewed up his face as he separated each word.  “Cocks?  What’s so funny about—”  His hand flew to his mouth as his own ensuing realization prevented him from repeating the word.

Courfeyrac laughed outright.  “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why we keep Marius Pontmercy around.”  The poor, young man blushed scarlet.

“Alright,” Bahorel started, drawing the attention away from Marius, “so, Enjolras doesn’t want to give our group of friend’s a clever name, even though **S** tudents **E** ducating the **M** asses to **E** nsure **N** onpartisanship totally works.”

Courfeyrac grinned.  “I like this guy.”

“Bahorel, why do I get the distinct feeling that you’ve thought about this before?”  Though Enjolras asked the question, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted an answer because they had veered off topic long enough.  “On second thought,” he continued, “don’t answer that.  We don’t even need a name, considering we’re not officially a club.  Now, it’s getting late, so we should probably call it a night.  For the time being, we’ll meet here next Wednesday evening, until more suitable arrangements can be made.  Are we all agreed?”

Several people mumbled ‘yes’ while the others just nodded their assent.

“Thanks for dragging your asses down here tonight, guys.  And, Courf, there won’t always be pizza, so bring your own food in the future.  Meeting adjourned.”  Grantaire shot a pointed look at Enjolras, putting on a sly grin and speaking soft enough so that only he could hear him.  “I beat you to it.  You were totally itching to say ‘meeting adjourned’, weren’t you?”

Enjorlas rolled his eyes.  “You’re really going to try to antagonize me after all the trouble you went through to make my program successful?”  The brunette’s reply was only to grin wider.  “I don’t get you, sometimes.”

Grantaire shrugged.  “What’s there to get?  I live to tease you…and occasionally make you smile, which you’re doing right now.”  The blonde’s cheeks flushed and he knew that looking away now would obviously indicate that he was trying to hide his embarrassment.  Grantaire changed the topic.  “So, I’m not tired yet.  Do you want to, I don’t know, watch a movie or something?”

It would have been prudent for Enjolras to say no, especially since he was well aware of Grantaire’s feelings.  But Enjolras was still in a state of euphoria about having an attentive audience for his lecture and apparently captivating them so much that this was now to be a weekly occurrence.  There was also the somewhat thrilling fact that Grantaire was the one who orchestrated it all for him.  _For him._

“Do I get to pick the movie this time?” Enjolras then asked.  He remembered their last impromptu movie night and how it sparked a political debate.  He just wanted to relax the rest of the night.

Grantaire laughed, though on the inside he was flying.  “That sounds fair.  Besides, something tells me I’ll be happy with whatever movie you choose.”

And he was.  After all, it was never really about the movie, it was about spending two uninterrupted hours with his blonde god.

 

 

\-------------------

 

A few days later, Cosette bumped into Eponine on her way out of class.  “Hey, Ep!  Do you mind if I walk with you?”

Eponine tried not to react to the fact that the blonde woman felt they were good enough friends now to use nicknames for each other.  “I guess that’s fine.”

They walked in silence for several minutes until Cosette’s true intent made itself known.  “So, like what’s the deal with Marius lately?”

How was Cosette to know that Eponine was the worst person to discuss this with?  She only saw the brunette as one of Marius’ closest friends, so it honestly made sense to approach her.  And yet, Eponine was fighting an internal battle, biting her tongue and clenching her fists so she wouldn’t say or do something stupid—something that might cause Marius to never speak to her again.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Eponine said dryly.

Cosette adjusted the strap of her messenger bag.  “Well, even though we haven’t known each other long, we’ve been kind of texting daily since I gave him my number on Halloween, and all of a sudden he just stopped.  He doesn’t even wave at me in the halls anymore.  I don’t know, it’s almost as if he’s avoiding me and I have no clue what I did wrong.”

The brunette shrugged half-heartedly.  “I don’t know what to tell you.  I mean, Pontmercy’s a bit of a nut.  He once told me that he thought _Citizen Kane_ was a good movie.  _Citizen Kane._   He also bought a plaque for his bedroom wall because the inspirational quote made him cry…in the middle of the fucking store.  I was there.”

“What’d the plaque say?” Cosette asked curiously, surprisingly not put off by Marius’ oddities.

“Something about how it’s hard to wait around for something that might never happen, but it’s harder to give up when you know it’s all you want.”  Eponine would mope about her hypocritical behavior toward Marius later.

Cosette smiled at nothing in particular.  “That’s nice.”  They lapsed into silence again, although Cosette was content with not speaking and found nothing remotely awkward about this taciturn exchange.  “So, not to harp on this, but have you noticed him being weird with anyone else?”

Eponine stopped walking and turned to face the blonde.  “If you’re so concerned, why don’t you just ask him?”  Honestly, Eponine wasn’t sure how much longer she could put up with Cosette’s probing questions.

“I would if I thought I could successfully corner him somehow.  It’s like he’s playing an elaborate game of tag with me, of which I never agreed to be _it_.”

Eponine sighed.  She didn’t want to be giving this woman advice on how to rekindle her friendship with the man she loved, but what else was she supposed to say?  _Stay the fuck away from my man_?  Marius would eventually find out and certainly never forgive her.  “As I said before, he’s a nut.  You saw him the other night.  He blushed after accidentally saying the word ‘cocks’.  He’s a child and a 60 year-old man trapped in an 18 year-old’s body.  It probably has nothing to do with you and more with him, but if you want a straight answer then find a way to ask him directly.”

“Okay,” the petite blonde said thoughtfully.  “I guess I can just bug Grantaire and hang out in their suite until he has no choice but to confront me.  Thanks, Ep.  It’s nice to have a female perspective for once.  I mean, I love Grantaire to pieces, but I’ve always secretly wanted a girl friend to talk about these things with.”

“What do you mean?” Eponine asked, drawing her eyebrows together.  “Do you only have guy friends or something?”

Cosette shrugged sadly.  “It’s kind of how it’s always been.  Guys talked sweetly and carried my books to class while the girls gave me death glares and tripped me in the hallways when no one was looking.  It wasn’t until college that I realized most of the guys didn’t want to be my friend either.  They were more interested in what was below my eyes, if you catch my drift.”

“At least you’ve got Grantaire.”  _Shit_.  This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.  Eponine wasn’t supposed to feel sorry for the woman.  And yet here she was, frowning at the fact that sometimes being beautiful was a curse and Cosette really couldn’t be blamed for that.  She seemed like a decent person, after all.  “The other RA’s at the meeting seemed a good sort, too.”

“They are,” Cosette said, putting on a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, “hence why I said _most_ and not _all_.  As for Grantaire, well, I’m extremely lucky I have him in my life.  We’ve been there for each other through the worst of times and it’s definitely a comfort to know he’ll be there if I need him.  I think that’s why I liked talking to Marius so much.  It was mostly just texting but, I don’t know, his responses made me feel like he was truly listening.  To be quite honest, I don’t get that often.  Is that weird for me to say, considering I hardly know him?”

“No,” Eponine replied, feeling slightly defeated yet neither broken nor angry.  “Marius is one of the good ones.”

It was really quite obnoxious how infectious Cosette’s smile was and there was no way for Eponine to stop the upward turn of her lips without looking awkward and causing Cosette to be concerned.

“Well, I definitely see why Marius trusts you so effortlessly.”  Cosette clutched the woman’s shoulder in a display of friendly affection.  “I should probably go stake out the awkward boy’s room now, so I’ll catch you later.  Thanks, again!”

“Anytime,” Eponine found herself instinctively saying.  The most frightening part was that she might’ve actually meant it.


	10. Morose Man, What is Inside Your Head? (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to make this a long chapter, but then I decided to split it up because I got family visiting in a week and a half and we will be doing awesome Cali stuff, which means I won't have time to write. The 2nd half's written out, but I will post it probably next Friday.
> 
> Also, I started a Les Mis blog on tumblr because it just seemed necessary. ; )
> 
> If you follow my main blog, jessicathebestica, check out my new one dedicated to the lovely e/R and the rest of the Amis: patriaismymistress.tumblr.com
> 
> Toodles!

“Just friends?” Jehan asked, because apparently he needed clarification.  “She used that exact wording?”

Marius sighed dramatically, staring at some empty corner of the room while he recalled the conversation in question.  “She said my friendship meant a lot to her.”  The expression on his face showed how truly dejected he was about this declaration—which turned into anger when he realized how selfish and petty he was behaving.  “Oh my god, I’m whining about being her friend!  Can I be any more pathetic?  She shouldn’t want my friendship.  I’m a bad friend and I don’t deserve her kindness!”

“You’re not a bad friend,” Courfeyrac replied without pause.  Jehan had taken residence on Courfeyrac’s lap—even though there was plenty of room on the couch—as the trio of friends relaxed in the spacious suite in between classes.  Well, Marius wasn’t as relaxed as the others, but he was definitely glad to have Jehan and Courfeyrac present so they could help him cope with his most recent encounter with Cosette—which happened in this very room…only an hour ago.  “You washed my dirty underwear, Marius.  Only really good friends do that.”

“I just don’t know where I went wrong.”  Marius abandoned the couch, having a sudden urge to pace the floor because pacing was good and might even trigger something that he hadn’t previously thought of.  “I mean, ignoring her wasn’t one of my brighter ideas, but the fact that she explicitly came over to say that she missed our talks has to mean something, right?  But is this enough to assume she could ever want to be with me?  And how long am I supposed to wait around to find out?  Not that I don’t enjoy her company as a friend, because she’s smart and opinionated and I could easily listen to her talk for hours…but I’m afraid my feelings for her will only grow with the amount of time we spend together, and keeping those feelings contained might cause me to go insane.”

Courfeyrac couldn’t avoid rolling his eyes at his clueless roommate if he tried because there was at least one ‘obvious’ solution to this problem.  “Gee, you could, I don’t know, tell her how you feel and see how she responds to it?”

This suggestion, however, in no way amused or inspired Marius and he made sure Courfeyrac knew that.  “Are you crazy?  No, sure, I’ll just tell Cosette I love her and risk getting slapped, or worse, shot down politely.  Honestly, Courf, I’d rather be attacked by a vicious grizzly bear.”

“Well, opening up with ‘I love you’ is probably not the wisest decision anyway,” Jehan said cautiously, giving his friend a sympathetic look, “considering you’ve known her for what?  A month?  But I do understand where your reservations come from.  Courf and I took way too long to admit our feelings because we didn’t know if they were reciprocated.”  Courfeyrac tightened his hold on the petite redhead, and Jehan smiled fondly.  “So, if you want to wait for an indication of whether she likes you more than a friend, then by all means wait.  There are other ways for you to keep your emotions at bay.”

“How?”  Marius asked keenly.

“You could write her a letter.”  At the spooked look on Marius’ face, Jehan knew he had to expand on his proposal.  “Not with the intent to give it to her, of course.  Just write what you would say to her if you ever miraculously found the courage.  It makes it easier, getting the words out on paper.  I can’t tell you how many drafts I went through when I was too afraid to speak to Courf.”

“I got sonnets,” Courfeyrac declared smugly.

Jehan dragged his hand through his boyfriend’s hair affectionately, but kept his attention on Marius.  “It doesn’t have to be in iambic pentameter, or include pretty words, or rhyme at all.  This is simply a confession; a confession that Cosette will never have to see but could at least put your mind at ease.”

As Marius considered this possibility, anxiously biting his fingernails all the while (because everyone has a bad habit and this was his), he finally came to the conclusion that there was really nothing for him to lose by doing it.  At most, it could dull the ache of his one-sided affection.  At worst, the pain would still be there, but Cosette would remain oblivious to his true feelings…and that was most important at present.  “Okay, I’ll give it a try.”  He went to his room in search of paper and a pen, shouting so his friends could still hear him from the other room.  “Don’t leave just yet, Jehan!  I may want your help in making it pretty anyway!”

 

 

 

They were a mess of hands and tongues and heavy breathing.  Sweat caused Jehan’s copper hair to cling to the back of his neck; sighs and moans escaped from their mouths while their tangled legs moved to create more friction.  It was delicious and yet not enough.  Courfeyrac longed to taste every inch of Jehan’s freckled skin so he could commit it to memory.  Jehan wanted their bodies to become one, souls touching and hearts beating in unison.

Jehan broke the kiss—which took a substantial amount of effort—to languidly rub his cheek against Courfeyrac’s.  It was no big secret how much the little poet loved his boyfriend’s sandpaper skin after a day of not shaving.  Courfeyrac started to ‘forget’ more often than not because of this delightful fact.  In truth, he would do just about anything to give Jehan what he wanted.

They had been kissing passionately like this for weeks and, although this was fantastically dizzying on its own, Courfeyrac wanted more.  He wanted all of Jehan, wanted to swallow the boy’s moans, wanted to see the look of sheer bliss on his face, tinted pink from physical exertion.  He thought Jehan wanted it too—could actually feel the poet’s desire straining against his thigh—so his hand traveled south to ease the pressure as he slowly started to unbutton the boy’s jeans.

This, however, set off a red flag.  “Courf, no,” he said, stilling his boyfriend’s hand with his own.  “Not now.  Not yet.”

“Okay,” Courfeyrac replied almost instantly, trying to push the haze of his desire to the back of his mind so he could focus on the freckle-faced poet beneath him.  “I didn’t mean to…I’m sorry.  I just wanted to make you feel good.  But if you’re not ready, I completely understand.”

“It’s not that I’m not ready, it’s just…”  Jehan groaned, fixing his gaze on the poster hanging on Monty’s side of the room so he wouldn’t have to look into his boyfriend’s questioning eyes.  “I want to take our relationship to the next level, which definitely can involve _that_ , but…well, let’s just say I have my reasons for waiting and leave it at that.”

Courfeyrac repositioned himself on the bed so that he could lie beside Jehan, an elbow propping his head up.  “If you’re serious about moving to the ‘next level’, then we should probably talk about this.  Bossuet keeps rambling about open communication being the key to a successful relationship, and considering he has two attractive people who are currently nuts about him, he obviously did something right.  I want you to feel comfortable telling me anything, Jehan.”

“Even if it runs the risk of hurting you?” Jehan asked, regretting it immediately.

The brunette sat up swiftly.  “Okay, now I feel like you have to tell me.  Why don’t you want to have sex with me?”

Jehan found himself impulsively cringing at the use of that word.  _Sex_.  Not that it had negative connotations for him before, but the way Courfeyrac said the word so casually reminded the poet why he had reservations in the first place.  If the brunette really wanted open communication, then Jehan would comply, but he hoped he could do so tactfully.  “Courf, I know you care for me.  That realization alone has made me happier than I ever thought possible.  You’re _it_ for me and, so help me god, I want _it_ to last.  I want to give myself to you completely, but not until you feel you can as well.”

“What do you mean?” Courfeyrac asked, his forehead creasing in confusion.  “I told you that I love you.  The fact that I only ever said those words to my parents and the cat I got when I was five should indicate how much you mean to me.”

Jehan’s heart was racing, but not in a tangled limbs sort of way.  He should’ve kept his mouth shut from the beginning.  He should’ve lied and said he wasn’t ready instead of accusing his boyfriend of not being emotionally committed to this relationship.  This conversation was going downhill fast but Jehan knew Courfeyrac wouldn’t let him walk away from it without explaining his doubts further.

“I love you, too,” Jehan said after a considerable pause, reaching out to brush his long fingers against Courfeyrac’s rough cheek.  “And it’s because I love you that I would never ask you to change for me.  But…but that doesn’t mean you won’t change and grow from being in an exclusive relationship.  Being with me is different from what you’re used to and I understand that it will take time to adjust and—”

“Damn it, Jehan,” Courfeyrac shouted desperately, “spit it out!”

Jehan dropped his hand, bundled up emotion stinging the back of his eyes.  “Fine!  I’m afraid that if we sleep together, you might think of me as one of your many conquests and throw me to the gutter the moment you get bored.”

The brunette was stunned into silence.  He went from looking at Jehan to looking at the ground to slowly easing himself off of the bed.  “So, this is how you see me.  I’m surprised you wanted to be with a polygamous flirt in the first place.  I suppose I am a whore after all.”

Jehan climbed off the bed as well, sensing that Courfeyrac was about to leave and needed to do something to make him stay.  “Courf, you know I don’t think that.”  He reached for the brunette’s hand, but the attempted was swatted away instantly.  “I want this, us, to last for as long as I can have you, but you have a history and I can’t just ignore that.  I want to believe that you’ll stay.  I want to trust you with all my heart.  But this isn’t like a light switch that can easily be turned on or off.”

“A clever metaphor, Jehan, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.  Perhaps, until you no longer doubt me and I stop flirting with everything that moves, we should just…take a break.”

Jehan shook his head vigorously, salty tears staining his cheeks.  “No.  I don’t want that.  Please stay.  I need you to stay.”

“But you don’t trust that I will, remember?”  And then he was gone.

A fresh wave of tears and an overwhelming sense of déjà vu overtook Jehan as he sank to the floor, wondering how they managed to find their way back to where they started.

 

 

 

This was their fourth movie night, not that Grantaire was bragging or anything.

Enjolras had been acting…differently…ever since that first meeting of the Friends of the ABC—oh yeah, they called themselves that now.  It was Jehan’s idea, some kind of French play on words of which Grantaire was absolutely clueless.  He pretended that the ‘ABC’ represented Enjolras’ pursuit to educate the people.  Either way, it worked.

Enjolras’ ever-constant need to cry out about the ‘injustices faced by blue-collared citizens’ aside, there was still the matter of him acting differently toward Grantaire.  It wasn’t ‘bad’ different, though.  This change was definitely a good thing, albeit confusing.  Enjolras was more attentive, smiled frequently, and was even prone to cutting off his arguments with Grantaire if he was on the brink of losing his temper.  And then there were times like _this_ , when the scruffy brunette swore Enjolras was flirting with him.

“You should comb your hair like that more often,” Enjolras commented absentmindedly.  “It looks nice.”

“Uh, thanks,” was all Grantaire could say because reciprocating the sentiment might result in excessive word vomit in which he compares Enjolras’ feathery locks to golden silk reshaped by the gods.  Not a good idea.  So, he changed the subject.  “You know, it totally makes sense why you would like this movie.”  He took a swig of beer.  The Residence Hall handbook stated, after all, that students of age were allowed to drink in the dorms as long as the door was closed.  This was the one time Grantaire did not get angry at the mention of Enjolras’ handbook.

The blonde gave his resident a curious look.  “You mean apart from _Back to the Future_ being a timeless classic that features exceptionally cheesy lines like ‘you are my density’?”

Grantaire laughed.  “Careful, Enjolras.  You’re starting to show your human side.”  He hopped off the bed to retrieve another cold beer from his RA’s mini fridge.  “But, actually, I was referring to the fact that this movie showcases how you can change the future for the better.  Much like your personal mantra, right?”

“That’s a bit of a fine line.  Marty got lucky with how he fixed the past.  The first time he tried to change it, however, he almost erased his entire existence.”

 “Semantics,” Grantaire retorted with a crooked grin.  The blonde felt a shiver crawl up his spine and, as a distraction, downed the rest of the contents of his bottle.  “Alright, if you had a time traveling Delorean, where would you choose to go?”

Considering this was one of Enjolras’ favorite fiction films, he, of course, already had an answer for this.  “Well, in the spirit of ‘what if’ games and disregarding the fact that science has deemed time travel quite illogical,” Grantaire rolled his eyes, “I’ve always wanted to see one of Martin Luther King Jr.’s speeches in person.  I know libraries and Wikipedia contain everything we need to know about the man, but to be there and actually witness the crowd’s reactions to his powerful words would be unforgettably life changing.  He gave these people a voice, helped them fight the good fight.  I would be truly honored to be in his presence.”

Grantaire was about three beers deep now, a delightful buzz coursing through his veins, so he might have felt slightly bolder than he normally was around the blonde.  “Now you know how I feel.  See, unlike you, I don’t need a Delorean to be in the presence of greatness.  I like it here just fine—more than fine, actually.”

Enjolras hid his blush well because he was starting to get used to Grantaire’s flattery, and this comment in particular really had no foundation to give it any merit.  “If you’re trying to compare me to the greatest public speaker of the Civil Rights Movement—and the century—I’m going to have to stop you there.  I could never be him, as much as I’d like to.  Anyway, the world is vastly different from how it was 50 years ago.  Emotionally inspiring words won’t make people strive for change.  That is why it is up to the education system to make a difference in the lives of the younger generations.  They are out future.”

“Do my ears deceive me,” Grantaire rhetorically asked with a sly smirk, “or is our valiant leader giving way to pessimism?  This is highly unprecedented, and—surprise, surprise—I’m going to have to respectfully disagree with you.  I know the debate team and the Friends of the ABC are mere trifles when pitted against movements that impact an entire country, but your words have affected people—particularly, me.  The world needs more believers like you, Apollo.”

Enjolras looked thoroughly put off by the use of this nickname.  “Apollo?”

“Of course,” Grantaire said easily, as if calling the blonde by this name was not a dead giveaway of his hopeless pining for the man.  Again, he was nearly drunk and Enjolras really should not have made a comment about his hair.  “You are the sun god, Apollo.  You prophesize a future of goodwill toward all and you have a fierce determination when in pursuit of your goals.  You are charming, yet capable of being terrible—much like the god in question.  It also doesn’t hurt that your hair shines as brightly as the sun.  You give off light, Enjolras.  How do you not see that?”

“I,” Enjolras stuttered because this form of flattery was beyond what Grantaire usually did, “I’m not sure how comfortable I am with being depicted as a god.  I am only human, just like you and every other man and woman on this earth.”

After taking a large gulp of beer and letting it slide down his throat, Grantaire laughed mirthlessly.  “Sometimes, you are so utterly blind, Enjolras.  I wish you could see what I see.  I’m not ashamed to admit my cynical tendencies.  In fact, I embrace this part of myself and shout it to anyone willing to listen.  And then there’s you.  You, with your determination to make me better, make me see the world for what it could be.  I could easily laugh at anyone else’s attempts, but you…well, I find it quite impossible not to listen to you when these prodigious passions come flooding out of your mouth.  So, do not think people can no longer be moved by words.  I have personal testimony to that affect.”

This confession seemed more telling than the one Grantaire mistakenly made while drunk on Halloween.  That one was lust-filled, this one went much deeper.  Grantaire was bearing his soul to Enjolras, and there was so much more there than what the resident skeptic normally revealed about himself.  Enjolras had a feeling that no one else—apart from, maybe, Cosette—got to see this side of Grantaire, and he liked it.  No, he craved it, wanted to keep this feeling and selfishly prevent anyone else from taking it away from him.  “Why me?  What did I do to alter your perception?”

“That’s a question I don’t have an answer for,” the scruffy brunette replied.  He was leaning his head against the wall, his shoulder (not accidentally) brushing against Enjolras’ arm.  “But I said it once, and I’ll say it again.  Whether or not this fear of media attention is legitimate, you would make one hell of a leader—a leader of the people.”

The blonde looked grave then, contemplating what he was willing to say next.  Should he tell Grantaire the truth?  Was this man someone Enjolras could entrust with his secret?  It was a bit of a gamble, choosing to be so open with someone he had only known for a few months, but there was something in the way Grantaire looked at Enjolras that made him at ease—made him feel safe.

“I’m not afraid of the media, per se,” Enjolras began, staring down the opening of his empty beer bottle.  “I fear the consequences of thrusting myself back in the public eye.”

_To be continued..._


	11. Morose Man, What is Inside Your Head? (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, lovelies. I hope this will do for the next 2-3 weeks, b/c pretty soon imma be whale watching and musuem browsing and disney-landing and beaching it up like a real Cali tourist. I will miss my solitude but I am exponentially happy to have my sis out for a visit next week!
> 
> Let me know what you think of this chappie! Feedback and general comments are encouraged and appreciated!
> 
> Toodles! ; )

_“I’m not afraid of the media, per se,” Enjolras began, staring down the opening of his empty beer bottle.  “I fear the consequences of thrusting myself back in the public eye.”_

 

* * *

 

The movie softly playing in the background had pretty much been abandoned, but Grantaire felt that any distraction wasn’t a good distraction at the moment so he pressed pause and encouraged Enjolras to continue.  “You’ve been in the news before?”

“In the papers, on all the nationwide news channels, and even a few talk shows.”  It was strange for Enjolras to _choose_ to lay all his cards out on the table like this—so strange that he even confessed as much.  “The thing is, Combeferre’s the only other person that knows this.  I’m standoffish for a reason, Grantaire, because I have to be cautious with whom I trust.  I’m relying on your discretion here, and I say this for my protection as well as yours.  This isn’t some get-rich-quick story that you can sell to the papers.  In fact, releasing this information could get you in serious trouble, potentially life-threatening trouble.”

“Jesus Christ, Enjolras,” Grantaire exclaimed with wide, concerned eyes.  “The suspense is killing me.  Were you like a child actor that made poor decisions in his teens from all the money and fame he garnered who later tried to get back on the straight and narrow away from paparazzi and prying eyes? Are you a reincarnated Danny Bonaduce?”

It was a small comfort to know that Grantaire could still make him smile even when plagued by his unforgiving past.  “I think I’d almost prefer that highly unrealistic backstory.  Instead, I get to be the eldest son to a man that embodies everything I detest about this country.”

Grantaire may not have many accomplishments on his back, but his ability to drink in every word Enjolras uttered was never put into question.  This was especially true on those occasions when the golden god’s tongue lashings were directed at certain parties.  “Shit.  Your dad’s a politician, isn’t he?”

Of course Grantaire would catch on rather quickly—another reason to add to the list of why he felt so at ease talking to the man.  “Not just any politician,” the blonde remarked grimly.  “I might not have hated him as much if he was just a governor, or maybe even a congressman.  The Secretary of State, however, has a lot of power and a lot of access to foreign resources that can easily be abused if put in the wrong hands.”

“Hold the fucking phone!  Your father is,” Grantaire was shushed violently and, therefore, tried to lower his voice, “is Adrian Petitjean?  That guy is a foreign policy beast!  The public loves him too.  But wait, last time I checked, his only son died in a car accident several years ago.”

The long, adept fingers that Enjolras used to push his golden locks out of his face were a source of envy for Grantaire.  “I was 16 when my father realized he could never mold me in his image.  I discovered too much and…well, I knew I could never forgive him for the selfishness and the manipulation and the lies, especially given his influential position.  So, I emancipated myself from my parents and moved in with my Uncle LaMarque until college.  It didn’t take my father long to use his hold on the media to dramatically communicate that I was dead to him, by literally falsifying my death.”

Normally it was a chore for Grantaire to stop staring at Enjolras, but this time it was the reverse.  This was a lot of information— _scary as shit_ information—and it was difficult to process in association to the marble god next to him.  Could it be real?  Enjolras was not fond of lying, evidenced by his unique by the way he handled the university’s debate team.  There was also the fact that the blonde had talked about his father before and—in so many ambiguous terms—it was evident that he always struggled to see eye-to-eye with the man.  The puzzle pieces fit, but the puzzle itself was a bizarre image to behold.

“That’s pretty fucked up, Enjolras,” the brunette finally said, finding the will to make eye contact with the young man seated next to him.  “Sorry if I’m being too blunt about this, but…shit.  My own dad wanted nothing to do with me by the time I was seven, but even if he _had_ the skills and paid the right pawns, something tells me he wouldn’t broadcast to the world that I was dead.”

Enjolras frowned, not at Grantaire’s brusque manner of speaking, but at the realization that not many fathers would create such an elaborately heinous plot.  “And every one wonders why I have such a hard heart.”

“I don’t think that.”  Enjolras sheepishly locked eyes with Grantaire at this bit of truth.  The shabby, slightly inebriated man continued.  “I think you have every reason to shut yourself off from the world, but you don’t.  You accept all the bad while still striving for the good.  I also think it’s hard for you to trust people—which is completely understandable given the circumstances—but when you do, they get to see you for who you really are.”

“And what is that?” Enjolras asked uneasily, trying not to show how desperately he clung to Grantaire’s every word.

Grantaire shrugged as if his answer to this question was of little consequence.  “A light in the dark.”

Whereas Grantaire was blasé in his depiction of the blonde, Enjolras was anything but.  He stared at Grantaire in disbelief, wondering how someone so hell-bent on believing humanity was a lost cause could have so much faith in one man alone, and him nonetheless.  It was exhilarating and terrifying all at once.  He was perplexed and speechless, something he never really dealt with before meeting Grantaire. 

“Enjolras, why did you tell me your secret?” the man asked, quite unexpectedly.

“Why?” the blonde repeated, stalling for time because he was nervous and he didn’t have a proper response and why did his room suddenly feel so stiflingly hot?  “Because…because I…well, I’m not quite sure really.  Perhaps, even though I don’t often agree with you, a part of me at least trusts you.  No, that’s not what I mean at all.  In truth, I trust you completely.”

And then his world went hazy as Grantaire’s lips descended on his—lips that were dry and slightly cracked, but altogether stimulating.  As the brunette breathed out through his nose, warm air tickled Enjolras’ cheek.  He had been kissed before, but not with such consummate force, never with so much raw passion.  It was certainly a struggle, but Enjolras remained frozen as Grantaire’s lips moved against his.  The sensation was rather overwhelming and half of his brain wanted to respond with an equal amount of fervor, eyes fluttering closed and getting lost in the scintillating heat the brunette’s mouth produced. 

The other half of him, however, knew this was a mistake.  It would give Grantaire false hope when nothing could become of this kiss—at least, not until he graduated.

Feeling Enjolras’ resistance, Grantaire (reluctantly) detached himself from the man and looked into his eyes—searching for a flame or even the tiniest spark.  Enjolras, however, had a well-practiced poker face that was currently on display.

“Let me guess,” the brunette said with a knowing sigh.  “This is the part where you quote the handbook and tell me to leave, in hopes that we’ll eventually forget this ever happened and move on with our lives.  Sound about right?”

Enjolras could already feel a headache forming, he just wasn’t sure if it was a result of too much beer or knowing this conversation could not be avoided.  “I just…I thought we established this already.  I can only be your friend.  Everything was going fine until you decided to…to do _that_.”

With bulging eyes, the brunette looked at his RA incredulously.  “Are you kidding me?  Fine?  You’ve made it almost impossible for me to just be your friend with all the flirting and the blushing and insisting on closing the door when I’m in your room.  It confuses the hell out of me!”

“I don’t flirt,” Enjolras warned, unhappy with Grantaire’s bold interpretation of their verbal exchanges.  “I’ve never flirted before in my life.”

“Oh, no?”  Grantaire then donned his best (but really, it was quite awful) imitation of Enjolras.  “ _You should comb your hair like that more often.  It looks nice.  Our conversations are the best part of my day.  We’re like opposite ends of a coin._ ”

The blonde raised one haughty brow.  “What, no one’s allowed to compliment their friends?  I’ll have you know that Combeferre’s never thought about buying contacts because I once told him that glasses suit his face very well.  So, don’t act like you’re some exception to the rule.”

Grantaire was livid now, nostrils flaring distastefully.  “You’re not going to admit that you wanted to kiss me back, are you?”

It was inevitable for them to reach this part of the conversation, in which Grantaire would completely ignore Enjolras’ reasoning as to why his feelings for the brunette were irrelevant.  They’ve been here before.  Grantaire had the same pleading look in his eyes, desperately hoping that Enjolras would confess that his feelings were mutual.  But, just as before, the blonde stood his ground.

“Perhaps, you’re the prophet in this scenario, Grantaire,” Enjolras said with his eyes carefully averted, “because, just as you predicted, I’m going to insist that you leave before either of us say something we might later regret.”

“We’re way past that point, wouldn’t you say?” Grantaire mocked with a harsh glare—that Enjolras did not see—before scooting off of the man’s bed.

Not knowing why, Enjolras felt compelled to at least justify his actions and not let Grantaire walk out of his room in such an agitated state.  “This really is for the best.  We will discuss this further once we’ve both slept on the matter.  I promise.  I don’t want to lose your friendship over –”

“Save it,” Grantaire interrupted callously.  “I don’t want your rational problem-solving skills ruining a perfectly good fight.  I’m gonna storm out of here now and we’re not gonna speak another damn word of this until you’re ready to be honest with yourself.”

Watching Grantaire leave made Enjolras’ tenacious rule-abiding philosophy less appealing in that moment.

 

* * *

 

At around 11 o’clock that night, Jehan received a text.  It wasn’t from Courfeyrac, instead the man considerate enough to keep tabs on Jehan’s boyfriend—if he was still allowed to call him that.  When Courfeyrac is sad, he hibernates like a bear.  When he’s mad, however, he’s liable to throw caution to the wind and cause a drunken scene worthy of Grantaire’s praise.  Leaving him alone was not a wise decision.

**MONTY:  At a party 1 block from dorms. Lost track of how many drinks he had. Sorry.**

Jehan pulled his other arm out of the cocoon of blankets he had snuggly wrapped himself in—the feel of it in no way comparable to Courfeyrac’s inviting arms.

**JEHAN:  Ok.  If you don’t want to stay, I can see if Marius is free.**

**MONTY: Its fine prouvaire. The girls r cute and seem 2 like me more than ur boyfriend. ; )**

The poet rolled his eyes because, yes, Monty definitely had a way with the ladies, but Courfeyrac was like the sun and it was impossible for people not to orbit around him.

Another incoming text buzzed and interrupted Jehan’s trail of thinking.

**MONTY: Hes totally moping btw. Its a bit pathetic actually.**

**JEHAN: If someone finds their way on his lap, I’m sure he’ll perk up soon enough.**

**JEHAN: Pun intended.**

Perhaps it was bitter of Jehan to type such a thing, but his sadness was currently masked by a newfound determination to prove the validity of his argument from this evening.

**MONTY: Ouch.  Harsh much?**

Yes, it was.  Jehan knew that.  He had hurt the brunette enough today and there was no reason for him to add insult to injury.  Why was it so difficult for Jehan to trust that Courfeyrac wanted them to be together as much as he did?  His dating history was, admittedly, the opposite of pristine, but he had also been in a relationship with Jehan for two and a half weeks now.  That’s almost three weeks of Courfeyrac not even being tempted by another co-ed within the general vicinity.  All signs pointed to Courfeyrac being surprisingly, yet unquestionably committed to the small poet.

And then Jehan fucked it all up with his words.  Words had always been the foundation of Jehan’s very existence and now they were the mark of his ruin.  He was lost without Courfeyrac and he didn’t know how to amend all the hurt he had already caused.

**JEHAN: Sorry. I’m in a bad place still. Please don’t tell Courf I said that.  He doesn’t deserve this.  I don’t deserve him.**

Wonderful.  Jehan’s self-deprecating persona had returned—a side Montparnasse was none too fond of.

**MONTY: Ur an idiot if u seriously think u 2 aren’t meant 4 each other. And I say this out of respect 4 u and with an honest hatred of clichés.**

The poet started to type out a long-winded reply—something about how the doomed existence of fated couples in many works of fiction usually trump clichés—when another text from Monty came through.  This one had a photo attached.  In it, his favorite shaggy-haired brunette was sitting on an unfamiliar couch looking down at his lap.  There was a woman sitting next to him who looked like she was chewing his ear off, but Courfeyrac wasn’t so much as trying to glance her way.

Not to say that meant anything in particular.  Jehan reasoned that it could just be the alcohol affecting him.  But then he looked at the caption underneath.

**MONTY: Don’t know y this chicks even tryin.  He wont give any1 the time of day. Just sayin.**

**MONTY: I think he really misses u.**

Jehan was being tested, that’s what this was.  Someone was carefully observing him to see how long it would take before he cracked and begged Courfeyrac to take him back.  Whether or not this was the case, it was clear that Jehan was very near the breaking point.  He didn’t like seeing Courfeyrac so vulnerable.  He looked lonely even surrounded by a room full of people. 

There was a reason the brunette rarely let someone into his heart.  Despite his casual confidence and appreciation for extravagant adventures, he was fragile and insecure.  Courfeyrac needed someone to love him unconditionally and Jehan desperately wanted to be that person.

**JEHAN: Just let it be, ok?  Don’t get involved.  I screwed up and plan on taking full responsibility for my actions.  Though I still want him back, what I want more than ANYTHING is for him to be happy.  If Courf is happy, then I can be happy.  End of discussion.**

Jehan always found texting to be quite limiting.  He was a man of many words after all.  The three page text he sent Montparnasse really came out of nowhere though.  He didn’t know why he sent it to him or why he started crying immediately after sending it, but the damage was done and so was he—done  with obsessively worrying and done with listening to his roommate’s insistence that Courf ‘missed him’.

Monty’s reply came shortly.  Jehan didn’t read it though, only listened to the vibration of its arrival from his phone’s position on his desk.  He slumped down further on his bed and tried to relax (and stop crying) long enough to get at least a few hours of sleep.

Five minutes later, his phone buzzed again, but Jehan continued to ignore it.  What part of ‘end of discussion’ did Monty not understand?

Another few minutes passed, and the buzzing returned, only this time more frequently.  It sounded as if Monty had resorted to calling Jehan now, but the petite poet really wasn’t in the mood for this so he turned off his phone.  He needed sleep if he was going to attempt to seek out Courfeyrac tomorrow so they might have a civilized, rational discussion.  That seemed like a sensible course of action, right?

With his phone silenced, a new disruption eventually took its place: incessant rapping at the door.  Knowing Monty couldn’t have made it back to the dorms that quickly from the party—also, he had his own key which meant he wouldn’t be knocking anyway—Jehan decided to get his sulking, sorry self out of bed to investigate.

“Hey, ‘Ponine.  What’s up?” Jehan greeted after opening his door.

Instead of a cordial reply in return, she thrust her phone in front of Jehan’s face.  “I want to make it perfectly clear that I am not everyone’s errand girl, but, god damnit, Monty won’t stop calling so just take the damn phone and talk to him so I can get back to sleep.  I have an exam tomorrow morning.”

If Monty was going to such extreme lengths to contact him, then maybe it actually _was_ important.  He took her phone and was about to press it to his ear, except something else piqued his curiosity and he chose to tackle that first.  “Why does he have your number, anyway?”  It was a well-known fact that Montparnasse did not socialize with anyone on floor 5A other than his roommate.

Eponine flushed brightly.  Her eyes scanned around wildly—probably in an attempt to conjure up some elaborate lie.  “I don’t…ugh!  Just hurry up!  I’ll be attempting sleep in my room when you’re ready to relinquish my phone.”  She swiftly turned on her heels and marched back down the hall.

“What is it, Monty?” Jehan finally asked, closing the door and thankful for the solitude again.

The man on the other end of the line sounded agitated.  “What the flying fuck, Jehan!  What’s wrong with you?  I left like six messages on your phone!”

“I turned it off,” Jehan replied evenly.  Screw Monty and his need to play matchmaker.

“Well, that was pretty stupid considering the fact those messages were my warning that I accidentally, but totally on purpose, showed Courfeyrac your last text.  You know, the one where you admitted to screwing up and said that you just want him to be happy.”

Jehan closed his eyes, fury rising up through his veins.  If Monty were standing next to him right now, the petite redhead couldn’t make any promises as to whether or not he would start clawing at his roommate’s face like a wild animal.  “I’m sorry, did you skip over the part of my text where I said ‘don’t get involved’?”

“I wouldn’t necessarily say I skipped it,” Monty said with a grin that Jehan could recognize even through the phone.  “You see, I have this thing that doctors diagnosed as ‘sensory selection’, in which I see what I want to see and hear what I want to hear.”

Jehan wished there was a way for Montparnasse to see and interpret the hard scowl on his face.  “I’m hanging up now.”

“Wait!  Hold on a second!” Monty yelled in a rush.  Jehan hummed to let the man know he was still (partially) listening.  “I haven’t told you the most important part of my warning.”

Jehan sighed.  He really wanted to go to bed, and cry some more, maybe.  He didn’t care which came first.  “And that is?”

Monty paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully.  “Well, I’m about 85% sure that Courfeyrac’s on his way over to see you right now.  Just thought you’d want the heads up.”

He did.  He really, really did.  “Wait, he’s coming here now?  As in, right now?”

“Yes,” Monty said slowly, almost sounding like an uncertain question itself. 

“Um, ok.  Thanks.” 

Jehan hung up without a goodbye because, well, he was in his pajamas and the braid he did several hours ago wasn’t holding his hair up anymore and the crying really wasn’t doing any favors for his complexion.  He had to do something about all of it before Courfeyrac arrived—whenever that would be—and…shit!  He still had Eponine’s phone!

He threw open the front door—in hopes of sprinting down the hall and tossing the device onto Eponine’s bed, then rushing back to throw on jeans and a t-shirt, comb his hair a bit and splash cold water on his face—only to be confronted with the one man he was not ready to see.

“Oh!” Jehan said, although it came out a little more like a gasp.  Courfeyrac looked almost as wrecked as he did, but that didn’t stop the little poet from tucking loose strands of hair behind his ears and self-consciously folding his arms across his chest to disguise the Sailor Moon pajama top he wore.  “What are you doing here?  I mean, hi.”

“Hi.”

Courfeyrac didn’t say anything else, he just stared.  His eyes didn’t look as glazed over as Jehan would’ve expected since Monty’s reports gave the impression that he had been drinking quite a lot.  It wasn’t that noticeable though; he didn’t sway unsteadily and there wasn’t any particular stench of alcohol seeping from his pores.  More than anything, he just looked sad, empty.

Jehan didn’t know what the protocol was in these types of situations.  The argument that started this whole mess happened only a few hours ago and he didn’t know if it was too soon to latch onto Courfeyrac as if his life depended on it, whispering sober words of apology repeatedly until the other man finally forgave him.  The brunette’s expression was so utterly blank that Jehan couldn’t even tell if he was still angry with him.

Why _was_ Courfeyrac here?  Oh, yeah.  The text.

“Listen,” Jehan started, because Courfeyrac was still staring blankly, “I know that you’re supposed to sleep on an argument before discussing anything further, but since you’re here I might as well tell you that though Monty should not have shown you that text, I meant every word of it—especially the part about you being happy.  That’s all I want.  And if it’s not with me, I understand.  We’re in college after all.  This is our time to make mistakes and learn from them and grow because of them, so don’t think I won’t recover if you find someone else because—”

“Jehan,” the brunette said abruptly, never taking his eyes off of the boy.  “Why…how can you think I’d want to be with anyone else but you?  You said that you want me to be happy, right?  Well, I can tell you without a shred of doubt that the last two weeks, four days, and three hours have made me happier than I’ve ever been in my entire life, and it’s all because of you.  I don’t want to lose that feeling.  I definitely don’t want to lose you.”

Relief washed over Jehan like a waterfall on a hot summer day.  The bridge of his nose stung as he felt the urge to cry again, except this time they were tears of joy.  “I don’t want to lose you either.  Courf, you mean the world to me and I should never have doubted your feelings or mine because I know we’re good for each other.  I lo—”

Courfeyrac had heard his little poet say these words before.  He didn’t need to hear them again because he already knew the truth in them.  So, instead, he cradled Jehan’s delicate face in his hands and pressed a bruising kiss against his mouth.  It had only been five (maybe six?) hours, and already they missed this.  It was a hungry kiss, tongues exploring and teeth nibbling.  No distraction could break them from their pursuit of each other’s pliant mouths.

Jehan tugged on Courfeyrac’s t-shirt, dragging him further into his room and closer to the bed.  Courfeyrac kicked the door shut on his way in.


	12. When in Rome...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, being on hiatus sucks! Seriously, I am SO SORRY that took so long. First it was family then it was house sitting and my routine has been thrown off for 3 weeks now and I fucking hate it! Not that I hated seeing my family, but, you know, routines are important in keeping a modicum of sanity.
> 
> I'm rambling. Anyway, this is not the full chapter I wanted to post, but I wanted to get 'something' out to you all asap, so here's "the morning after". Enjoy!
> 
> Ooh, and stop by my Les Mis blog on Tumblr (youknownothingenjolras) if you ever want to chat!
> 
> Toodles!

Montparnasse leaned against the elevator wall with a shit-eating grin on his face.  It was earlier than he usually woke up but he couldn’t be bothered to care at the moment.  In fact, his night had turned out so exceptionally well that he half-considered going to class today—of course, that consideration would likely be tossed out the window the moment he entered his dorm room and saw his bed because another four hours of sleep did sound appealing.  Leaving the party with Clara and Sara was an experience that left him dog-tired, but it was oh so worth the hamstring he likely pulled.

The high-pitched ding that signaled the elevator’s arrival on floor 5 removed Montparnasse from his thoughts long enough to exit and make his way to his door.  Someone was waiting for the elevator down and Montparnasse could only smirk at who it was.

“Hello, love,” he greeted, his voice syrupy sweet as he lowered his head a bit to let a few strands of raven black hair fall over his face in an alluring manor.  Why this little maneuver always worked like a charm was a mystery even to him, but Montparnasse wasn’t one to argue with a good thing.  “Have you been waiting up for me all this time?  I mean, I hope I didn’t give you the wrong impression when I called last night.  I really was just trying to get a hold of Jehan.”

Eponine huffed in annoyance.  “Don’t flatter yourself, Monty.  I could never give you more than a moment’s consideration, and every conclusion I’ve come to hasn’t been in your favor.”

Montparnasse gave the young woman a knowing look.  “I think I’d be a bit more wounded if I didn’t recall a certain olive-skinned temptress shoving me into the utility closet for a little…what should we call it?  Sexual stimulation?”

“For Christ’s sake, Monty!”  Eponine widened her eyes but dialed down her voice as she cast a nervous glance at their (thankfully) empty surroundings.  “How many times do I have to tell you that it was a drunken mistake and that I have absolutely zero interest in stimulating any part of you ever again?”

The dark-haired man shrugged.  “I know your type, ‘Ponine.  I’d give it a month before you come crawling into my lap again.  Call it intuition.  Anyway, this really has been fun, but I’ve got an item on my ‘ultimate fantasy’ list that needs crossing off.  Twins, ‘Ponine!  You’re looking at a man who snagged a couple of twins last night.  It was a truly religious experience, if I do say so myself.”

“I think I liked you better when you had one word answers for everything,” Eponine said after emphasizing how much his confession affected her gag reflex.  “And since you’ve decided to scar me with your narcissistic fantasies right before my big test, I don’t think I’m going to warn you after all.”

“Warn me about what?” he replied, unable to hide that his interest had been piqued.

The young woman gave a snarky smile as the elevator she had been waiting for finally arrived.  “I think it’s safe to say you’ll know it the moment you see it.”

Eponine was true to her word, because 30 seconds later he was fishing out his keys and shoving it into the lock and turning the doorknob and…

“Ah!  Shit!”  It took Montparnasse five seconds too long to process the image in front of him and properly freak out before slamming the door and pacing the empty lobby.  “God damnit!  Fucking shit!  I’m going to murder Eponine!”

He was vigorously rubbing his eyes, thinking the visual scars could somehow be removed, when Musichetta came out of her room in her Bunsen & Beaker pjs heading straight for the girl’s bathroom.  She cast Montparnasse a sideways glance.  “I’m guessing Ep didn’t tell you that Courf and Jehan’s naked wrestling match was still going on?”

The raven-haired man sighed dramatically.  “I think I’ve gone blind.  Of all the things in this world I NEVER wanted to see, Courfeyrac’s ass was one of them!  Seriously, Eponine is gonna pay for this.”

“But,” Musichetta started, scrunching up her forehead, “weren’t you trying to get them back together?”

Montparnasse rolled his eyes.  “Making Jehan happy and watching two sweaty, gyrating men not make proper use of a bed sheet are COMPLETELY different things!  Now, if you will excuse me, I’m gonna lay down by the pond and cover my eyelids with birdseed in hopes that the pigeons will prevent me from ever seeing _that_ again.”

\--------

Using his index finger, Courfeyrac traced a line down the center of Jehan’s back.  He counted the ridges of his spine, felt the goosebumps rise against his flesh, and repeated the process over and over again.  Sunlight flooded into the room, accentuating Jehan’s freckled skin and Courfeyrac just wanted to freeze this moment so he could bask in everything that it was: flushed cheeks, tangled legs, warm skin, and blissful smiles.  It was perfect.  Jehan was perfect.

“What?” Jehan asked, wondering why the brunette had stopped his artful ministrations of his upturned back and instead took to staring intently.  His curiosity, however, was undermined by the grin on his face.

“What do you mean ‘what’?” Courfeyrac replied, inching just a little bit closer.  “Am I not allowed to ogle my stunning boyfriend and marvel over how incredibly happy I am?”

Jehan brought a hand up to Courfeyrac’s naked chest, drawing light, teasing circles there.  “Of course you can, but your ‘marveling’ look is oddly similar to your ‘I wanna have sex’ look.”

Courfeyrac smirked.  “I do wanna have sex.”

“Again?  I don’t know where this stamina of yours comes from,” Jehan exclaimed disbelievingly.  “I’m exhausted after last night…and this morning’s festivities.  However, I am perfectly content with just lying in bed all day like this.”

The sleepy-eyed brunette snaked his arms around his lover’s slender waist, suddenly craving as much physical contact as possible.  “You mean, play hooky?  That doesn’t sound like you, Jehan.  I think I’ve been a bad influence on you.” 

The copper-haired man shrugged innocently.

“Besides,” Courfeyrac continued, “I don’t think your roommate would let us take over the room for the entire day.  I’m sure he already hates us after what he walked in on this morning.”

Jehan rolled his eyes and fell back against his pillow with a thud.  “Ugh.  I could care less about him anyway.  I’m still mad that he shared that private text with you.”

“You mean the private text that led me back here to make up and have hot, crazy sex with you?”

Jehan tried to suppress a smile.  “Yeah, that text.”

“You know, you should really give Montparnasse a break.  He was only trying to help.  It’s obvious he really cares about you.”

The shock on the freckled man’s face was genuine.  “Says the man who aggressively grabbed Monty by the jacket collar less than a month ago.”

“Hey,” Courfeyrac started, leveraging himself on his elbows as he began to defend his actions, “I only did that because I thought he was two-timing you.  Not that I particularly enjoyed the image of you two together, but I was willing to accept that he was what you wanted as long as he was good to you.”

“Will you be good to me, Courf?” Jehan asked, the look in his eyes betraying his trepidation over the man’s answer.

Courfeyrac sighed, feeling a swell of emotion pump blood to his heart.  “Jehan…Jean Prouvaire, you are intelligent and romantic and headstrong and so achingly beautiful that I would have to be out of my mind to mess up what I have with you.  I’m all in and I promise to be good to you for as long as you’ll let me.”

Sometimes, especially in this exact moment, Jehan had trouble believing that any of this was real.  This kind of devotion only happened in romance novels and plays.  How did he get so lucky?  How—at 18—was he able to lie in bed, naked, with the man of his dreams and actually hear and believe the words coming out of this man’s perfectly round mouth?  If this really was a dream, waking up was not an option.

“I’m all in, too.”

Jehan’s statement was sealed with a kiss, followed by a very sensual round four.


	13. How We Spend Our Days is What Becomes Our Lives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. That one took forever. Sorry. Anyway, I knew I had to get this out before tomorrow, because tomorrow I will be busy...sitting in line all freaking day for a backstreet boys concert! yes, that's how I roll. Anyway, enjoy. And leave a comment. I love all of them.
> 
> Toodles!

Alaskan winters seemed more tolerable than being in Grantaire’s presence at the moment.  In Alaska, you had time to prepare for the cold, bundling up as a first line of defense against harsh, biting winds.  But with Grantaire there was no knowing when his wrath would strike, no time to prepare for the onslaught of verbal abuse or his impassioned, thrashing limbs.  Everyone on floor 5A (as well as Cosette) worried about him, yet no one wanted to be anywhere near him.

He stopped drinking socially, passing the time instead by casually making his way through a case of George Dickel’s Tennessee Whiskey in the solitude of his room.  He started showing up to class more often, which was odd in itself, but he had his _reasons_ —needing space from a certain blonde with a permanently furrowed brow _reasons_.

Though they all missed Grantaire’s company, his seclusion wasn’t what frightened them the most.  It was the rare moments that he _would_ make an appearance, seeming completely normal one minute and then flipping over the coffee table like the Hulk seconds later.  It was during one of these instances that Marius learned never to question Al Pacino’s performance in _The Godfather_.

Cosette even had a hard time getting through to him, but her presence on 5A was helpful in other ways, ensuring the close-knit residents that Grantaire didn’t mean it when he said he wanted to smash Bossuet’s face in and that he was just acting out because of a ‘personal dilemma’.  She kept her explanations vague, saying only what was necessary to make Courfeyrac, Marius, and the others feel comfortable enough to carry on with their lives and allow Grantaire to do the same.

Cosette and Gavroche had other plans though.

Being the only outside parties completely in the loop, they decided that a much needed dialogue between Enjolras and Grantaire would take place, preferably before Winter Break.  Christmas was only a few short weeks away and since Cosette planned on spending the majority of her three-week vacation with Grantaire, she was determined to get her friend out of his funk before then.

Cosette’s task came first.  She planned it perfectly, choosing a location away from prying eyes and inquisitive ears.  Enjolras had hall duty that night and thus made his way to the RA Office to clock in, only to be suddenly and violently shoved into said office with no way of escaping.

“What the—” Enjolras started, oblivious to the identity of his accoster until the familiar blonde curls and extended eyelashes came into focus.  “Jesus, Cosette!  What was that all about?”

Cosette magnified the power of her glare.  “You know perfectly well why I’m here, Enjolras.  No doubt, you’ve expected an angry tirade from me since whatever the hell you did or said that caused Grantaire to shut down.”

Enjolras huffed in frustration, running a hand through his wavy hair.  “Cosette, you don’t under—”

“Oh, I didn’t give you permission to speak yet,” she interrupted stridently.  “Personally, I don’t give a fuck what you did or didn’t do.  You have a nasty little habit of failing to acknowledge the consequences of your actions so I’m honestly not surprised you two are in this mess.”

“Please, just let me expla—”

“So,” Cosette continued, intransigently ignoring Enjolras’ pleas, “because Grantaire is like a brother to me, what I’m about to say will only ever be said once so listen carefully.  Grantaire’s self-deprecating, cynical tendencies stem from a pretty shitty childhood.  He grew up believing that nothing ever gets better and that it’s useless putting even a nominal amount of effort into a pipe dream.  Then he met you, and suddenly there was something in his life worth fighting for.  I mean, he joined an academic club for you!  Do you even know how he ended up on your floor a month into the semester?”

Cosette had finally given him a chance to speak, but that task proved to be quite difficult for him.  His head was swimming with thoughts and memories of Grantaire.  He cleared his throat before mustering up a response.  “Um…I think it had something to do with a roommate disagreement?”

The girl slowly shook her head.  “He hasn’t lived in the dorms since his freshman year.  It was because he first saw you on move-in day.  He would kill me for saying this, but I was there, I saw the way he looked at you.  All it took was one look, and then he was asking questions about you and making a phone call to his friend that works in Housing to see about adding himself to your floor roster.  This friend had to pull a lot of strings and apparently a hefty favor was promised in return, though Grantaire still refuses to tell me what it was. 

“My point is this,” Cosette continued after a pregnant pause, “of all the years I’ve known Grantaire, he has never worked so hard to make someone else happy as he does with you—not even his own mother, Enjolras.  Grantaire’s a pretty stubborn guy and he won’t say a word to me right now, but I know that you’re the reason he’s upset, simply because you’re the only person that has that effect on him.”

Enjolras and Cosette stared at each other in silence for what felt like an unreasonably long time.  Muffled voices echoed outside the locked door as students walked to and from their dorm rooms. Cosette was threatening him, he knew as well as she did.  Though her words were honest and full of compassion for their dark-haired friend, the tone was simple enough: _I don’t like you and I’m not afraid to get violent if you don’t amend the wrong you’ve done_.

Cosette’s efficacious confession was certainly enlightening.  He could definitely relate to having an undesirable childhood, and the fact that Grantaire became Enjolras’ resident just to be near him was really quite…well, it was unexpected and may have left him with a pleasant fluttering in his abdomen.  But, as always, there were other things to consider.

“Well, what do you have to say for yourself?” Cosette prompted.

Enjolras closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger to relieve the building pressure there—and also to stall for time.  What could he say?  Any excuse he came up with—legitimate or otherwise—would be met with a scowl or sardonic laugh from his fellow RA.  She was very protective of Grantaire, which was normally a characteristic he admired in people, were it not for the fact that she was protecting Grantaire from him.  Was he a threat to Grantaire’s well-being?  Could he have handled the unceremonious kiss differently?

“There’s not much to say,” Enjolras finally replied after carefully considering his choice of words, “except that your defamatory accusations are out of context and this matter is between Grantaire and myself, not you or anyone else.  Once Grantaire is in a more rational state of mind, I will talk to him.”

Cosette scoffed at the arrogant blonde.  “A more rational state of—ugh!  I have so had it with your negotiation bullshit!  Grantaire is not a debate topic that you can manipulate until he is forced to see reason.  He is a person with feelings and, believe it or not, so are you!  I’m not blind, Enjolras.  As much as I hate how you’ve corrupted Grantaire, it’s pretty obvious that you treat him differently than everyone else.   Just admit that you like him!”

Cosette was treading dangerous ground now.  She had no right to presume to know such things, and the very thought of it caused his own rage to seep forth.  “You know nothing of my feelings!  Grantaire is my friend, but that is all.  He was the one who crossed a boundary, so I don’t know why I’m the one being interrogated right now.  You shouldn’t even be encouraging this, Cosette, considering you know as well as I do that relationships between RA’s and residents are strictly prohibited!”

“Are you kidding me right now?!”  It had quickly escalated into a screaming match between the two which, okay, wasn’t part of Cosette’s original plan but the guy just got under her skin sometimes.  People passing down the adjacent hallway could probably hear their heated exchanged, but neither of them bothered to care.  “I hope you have a better excuse for pushing Grantaire away, because THAT is utterly pathetic.  I can’t believe you follow that handbook so closely!  It’s just a fucking guideline!”

“Oh, right!  So, you’re saying that if there was a mutual attraction between yourself and one of your residents, you’d pursue it at the risk of getting caught?”

The young woman threw her hands up in the air.  “Abso-fucking-lutely!  If he was the right one, at least.  I don’t expect someone to wait for me until the school year ends.  If I get caught, I get caught.  It’s not the end of the world.  On the reverse spectrum, I’d definitely regret walking away from someone who could’ve been the one.”

Enjolras huffed loudly.  “You’d really have me believe that Grantaire’s ‘the one’ for me?”

The mood in the tiny office dramatically shifted.  They were no longer yelling at each other and Cosette’s hands limply dangled at her sides in lieu of the tightly wound fists she demonstrated previously.  The look on the woman’s face softened…a little too much, actually; like that of a smug victor.

“I never said that, Enjolras,” she said, eyebrows raised knowingly, “but the fact that you thought about it, even for a split second, really makes me wonder why you’d let him go.”

Enjolras felt a strange churning in his stomach.  His legs were like rubber and he feared that at any moment he might collapse onto the floor in a heap—an emotionally distorted and lifeless heap.  None of this made sense.  She can’t just assume that…and it hardly implies that he…because Grantaire was so different from him, so…ugh.  Who was he kidding?  The thought _definitely_ crossed his mind, he _definitely_ had feelings for Grantaire, and most importantly, he _definitely_ fucked everything up.

“Uh,” Enjolras grumbled, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like an antsy child, “um, I have to go.  Excuse me.”

Cosette smiled triumphantly in Enjolras’ wake because he left in such a rush that he forgot to clock in and pick up his hall duty pager.

 

\------------

 

Gavroche was charged with talking to Grantaire.  Cosette may have known the brooding 24 year-old the longest, but the fact that they were like brother and sister made it that much easier for Grantaire to tell her to ‘back the fuck off!’  Gavroche, on the other hand, was a 13 year-old kid that Grantaire usually let get away with anything.

Of course, no one expected this to be easy.

“Go away, kid!” Grantaire shouted as he spotted the tiny genius heading his way outside the cafeteria.

“But, I thought you’d like to test out the modifications I made to Plants vs. Zombies.  I’ve reprogrammed it so that you _can_ actually use bacon as a projectile against zombies.  Death by bacon, Grantaire!”

Gavroche’s puppy dog face normally got him whatever he wanted, but apparently Grantaire was further gone than he thought.  “Sorry, Gav, but I’m not feeling up to it today.  Maybe another time.”

The boy sulked but didn’t push it further.  Moments later, they were both walking side-by-side toward the elevator that would take them to their floor—which wasn’t what Grantaire wanted because the reason he turned down the boy’s offer was to be alone.  Walking together in silence was not alone.

“Um, are you going back up to your room?” Grantaire asked tentatively.  Gavroche nodded.  “Oh, then, actually, I’m just gonna take a walk down to the convenience store, but I’ll catch you later.”

“Ooh!”  Gavroche exclaimed.  “Good idea!  I should stock up on energy drinks because this database project is exceeding the time constraints I placed on it, which means yet another sleepless night crunching numbers.  I’ll come with.”

 _Shit_.  How was he supposed to get rid of the tenacious kid without being a total dick?  “Well, I wasn’t planning on going to the one down the street.  I need to pick up something from CVS, which is a couple miles away, so...”

Little Gav shrugged.  “I don’t mind.  My next class isn’t till 3pm.”

They left the dormitory in silence and walked into the fresh air.  It was cloudy and moderately chilly outside; the perfect weather for Grantaire to mope around in and think on his own miserable thoughts…but not with a prepubescent boy at his side.  Having no other options left, he gradually picked up his pace, going from a leisurely stroll to speed walking to all out sprinting down the sidewalk, cutting corners in an attempt to lose the kid.

It didn’t work.

Grantaire finally stopped once he came to a traffic light, doubling over and panting heavily like a worn out dog.  Running wasn’t really his thing.  “How…are you not…remotely…out of breath?”

“Because,” Gavroche replied evenly, casually leaning against a traffic pole, “unlike you, I don’t drink like a fish and smoke like a chimney.  Also, I might’ve placed second in the boy’s all-state cross country conference last year.”

Grantaire shook his head, his breathing slowly going back to normal.  “You really are the worst kind of overachiever.”

“So I’m told, but fortunately my brain is hotwired to not give a shit.  Now, I many not run for sport anymore, but staying in shape will play a big role in accomplishing my new year’s resolution, which is to snag a college girl.”

Grantaire chuckled.  “You really think a college girl’s gonna go for a 13 year-old with a rapidly changing voice?”

“I’ll be 14 in January,” Gavroche reminded Grantaire proudly.  “Plus…what’s the colloquial phrase people use?...Other 14 year-olds ain’t got nothing on me!  I’m straight up Doogie Howser, bitch!  All I have to do is look a girl in the eye, give her a sexy wink and say ‘How do you do?  My name’s Gavroche.’  And then the swooning happens.  It’s all about the delivery, see.”

“You really should stop spending time with Montparnasse.  His methods are outdated.”

The smile on Gavroche’s face faded away and in that moment he looked like the vulnerable, confused kid that he was.  “What else am I supposed to do?  This is the longest conversation we’ve had in over a week.”  Grantaire let his little friend’s words sink in.  It was true.  He was being reclusive and unapproachable and it wasn’t fair to treat everyone with contempt when he was only really mad at one person in particular.  “What happened, Grantaire?  Does it have something to do with Enjolras?”

The older man pursed his lips and started walking when the pedestrian crossing sign lit up.  The boy followed.  “I can’t talk about this right now, okay Gav?  It may seem petty to you, but there’s just a lot of shit muddling my brain and I’d much rather sort it all out on my own.  Just go back to the dorms.  I’ll swing by your room later if I’m feeling up to it.”

“Well, that’s certainly a lie,” Gavroche responded, rolling his eyes at Grantaire’s retreating back.  “The minute you get back to your room you’ll instinctively pick up another bottle of whiskey and challenge yourself to a round of ‘how long will it take me to polish this off?’, because that’s what you do.  You drink until your problems become a dull ache in the back of your mind, so you don’t actually have to do something about them.”

Grantaire towered over Gavroche, and the full weight of that fact was felt when Grantaire abruptly turned around and glared at the boy, nostrils flaring balefully.  “Don’t do this, Gav.  My drinking is none of your business and it would be wise of you to butt out of my affairs.”

When Grantaire started walking again, Gavroche didn’t follow—at least, not right away.

“He will call you!” Gavroche eventually shouted, now a good 200 feet behind his friend.  The fact that Grantaire paused in his step was enough of an excuse for Gavroche to chase after him.  “I’m not being facetious.  Whatever he’s done, sooner or later he will call and apologize.”

Grantaire scratched the coarse stubble on his neck.  “I’m not sure an apology will fix this,” he found himself saying, despite wanting to be left alone.  “Besides, an apology from Enjolras is often half-assed and laced with a subtle intent to admit that he was never in the wrong.”

Gavroche scrunched up his face as he thought about the picture Grantaire painted of their RA.  “Yeah, that’s fairly accurate.  I guess the joke’s on you then, for falling for a clueless, headstrong idiot.”

“That shouldn’t be funny,” Grantaire said as he fought off a grin, “mainly because it’s painfully true.”

“He’ll come around, R.”  Gavroche was being the sympathetic friend that Grantaire often needed but usually shied away from.  Now that he was letting it happen it was…nice.  The kid had even patted Grantaire’s shoulder as an added comfort, which would have been less awkward if he was maybe a foot taller.  The tender moment was interrupted by a nondescript ringtone blaring from Grantaire’s pants pocket.  “See!  What did I tell you?”

Grantaire gave the kid a skeptical look as he started to reach into his pocket.  “I doubt that’s him.  He hasn’t made an attempt to call me this entire week.”

“$20 says it’s him!” Gavroche challenged quickly, before Grantaire had a chance to look at his screen.

Not one to ignore a bet when the odds seemed to be in his favor (he was a man of little faith), Grantaire complied.  “Alright, deal.”

What a mistake that was.

“What the fuck?” Grantaire blurted as he stared wide-eyed at the caller’s name on his cellphone.  He was in such a state of shock that he didn’t have time to consider whether he wanted to answer it before the call ended and went to voicemail.  “How did you know it was gonna be him?”

Gavroche looked at Grantaire pointedly.  “Honestly, R, have you not been paying attention during the course of our friendship?  It’s superfluous to ask me ‘how did you know’ questions because—hello!  Certified genius!  You know, there have been studies linking high-functioning brain activity to metaphysically sentient behavior.  I’m not saying I can predict the future, but—okay, well, I might be able to predict the future.”

The older man shook his head.  “Alright, now you’re just getting cocky.”

“What?” Little Gav said innocently.  “For all we know, I could be right.  For instance, I predict that Enjolras is so desperate to contact you that right after he leaves a voicemail he’s going to send a text as well.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes but then he heard the tell-tale doorbell chime that signaled his new notification.  He looked down at his phone.  There were two notifications…and one of them was a text message.

**E: Hey, it’s me.  Enjolras, that is.  Anyway, please call me when you get a chance.  It’s important.**

“Is this some kind of prank that you and Enjolras are in on?” Grantaire asked warily.  “Or did someone steal his phone?”

“Why are those the only two options?  Okay, putting aside my potentially psychic abilities, I’m pretty sure _that_ is actually Enjolras trying to get a hold of you under no pretense other than to make amends with you.”

The bewilderment never left Grantaire’s face.  “But…why?”

Gavroche sighed.  Apart from his academic intelligence, he often considered himself to be more mature than the majority of his acquaintances at college.  “Because, like the rest of us, Enjolras is only human.  This would be a lot easier for you, R, if you remembered that little tidbit.”

Grantaire would’ve been offended if the kid wasn’t spot on.  How many times had he put Enjolras on a golden pedestal in the months he had known him?  He couldn’t help it, really.  As often as he tried to remind himself that Enjolras was not an untouchable, immortal god, the statuesque blonde would simply open his mouth and then Grantaire couldn’t be convinced otherwise.

“Well,” Gavroche started, looking around uneasily, “I should head back to my room now.  It turns out that I don’t need those energy drinks after all.  I finished the project last Monday.  But, enough about me, you should really call Enjolras, or at the very least, text him.  As our friends in Norway say, _farvel_!”

He watched Gavroche sprint back toward the dormitories.  Gav was an odd kid, but definitely someone Grantaire was glad to have in his life.

Speaking of people he was glad—or currently not glad—to have in his life, Grantaire returned his gaze to the cellphone in his hand.  In that short amount of time, the persistent blonde had sent another text.

**E: I can’t tell if you’re ignoring me or just busy at the moment.  I don’t want to bother you if you’re sleeping or in class, but I’d really like to talk to you.**

Grantaire pulled up the keyboard though a reply hadn’t come to mind.  Should he suggest a meeting place?  No, that would make him look too eager.  He was mad at Enjolras, he had to remember that.  He could ask what was so important, but he was pretty sure he already knew the answer and asking would just seem like unnecessary filler until Enjolras said what he wanted to say.

Another text popped up during Grantaire’s internal battle.  He wasn’t going to stop, was he?

**ENJOLRAS: I watched Serpico the other night.  That isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about, but I just thought you’d like to know.**

Grantaire finally took pity on him.

**GRANTAIRE: Did u like it?**

The reply was instantaneous.

**ENJOLRAS: Oh good!  You are talking to me!  I actually liked the movie a lot.  Nice recommendation.**

**GRANTAIRE:  I figured a movie about a man fighting corruption in the govt was right up ur alley.**

A pause and then…

**ENJOLRAS:  So, what are you doing right now?  Are you free for lunch or something?**

Grantaire was grinning already, even though he really shouldn’t and, honestly, this man would be the death of him.

**GRANTAIRE:  I already ate.  Plus I was thinking of meeting w/ 1 of my profs to see about raising my grade in his class.**

Another long, grueling beat.

**ENJOLRAS:  Oh.  That’s fine.  Another time perhaps.**

**GRANTAIRE:  Wow!  And u believed that?**

**ENJOLRAS: I’m confused.  So, you’re not meeting with your professor?**

**GRANTAIRE:  When have I ever cared about grades?**

**ENJOLRAS:  How was I supposed to know?!  Sarcasm is not translatable via text message.  Can I just call you?**

He thought about it briefly before coming up with a better plan.

**GRANTAIRE: Meet me at CoCo’s FroYo in 30.**

\----------

 

It was the Thursday before Winter Break (most students either didn’t have Friday classes or opted to sit this one out), and the residents of floor 5A decided to eat dinner together in the lounge one last time before heading back to their respective hometowns.  There would be no separation anxiety for Jehan and Courfeyrac because their parents’ houses were only about a mile apart, but for everyone else three weeks seemed like an excruciatingly long time.  Their first semester of college turned out to be an improvement over their initial expectations.

Well, most.  Not all.

Dinner was comprised of ten friends (Cosette tagged along but Enjolras respectively declined) sharing couches and window ledges, telling stories and laughing heartily in between mouthfuls of chicken parmesan.  So many memories had been created in the last five months and they were glad to know it wasn’t over yet.

“Are you sure it’s okay for me to crash at your place, Ep?” Musichetta asked sincerely, not wanting to cut in on their family time.  Musichetta hailed from the coast and plane tickets were a bit pricier than she expected so both her and her parents agreed to see each other in the spring. 

“It’s totally cool,” Eponine replied after licking some marinara sauce off of her thumb.  “And don’t think you’re intruding at all, because Gav and I could really use the company.  Our parents, ironically, find better use of their holidays away from the family.  They see Christmas as a goldmine of business opportunities and aren’t home that much…if at all.”

Gavroche rolled his eyes.  “Not that I care.  My fondest memories usually occur when they’re not around.”

Musichetta suddenly had a determined look on her face.  “Well, as thanks for your gracious hospitality, I’m going to make this a Christmas you guys won’t forget.  I know some amazing cookie recipes and—ooh!  I’ll research the best Christmas light displays in your area for us to drive by at night because that’s honestly my favorite thing about the holidays.  And I may not have all my ornaments from home, but there are plenty of ways to make homemade decorations for tree trimming—”

“Oh…we don’t normally get a tree.”

The Colombian woman gave Eponine her most-practiced deadpan stare.  “This year, you’re getting a tree.”  Her expression softened as she wrapped her arms around the two men beside her on the large couch.  “And since my boys are only about an hour away from where you’re at, they can come over and help decorate.  We’re going to make this the best goddamn Christmas tree you and Gav have ever seen!”  She leaned to the side and planted a sloppy kiss on Joly’s cheek, doing the same to Bossuet’s shiny, bald head.

“Ugh, get a room you three!” Courfeyrac boomed, making a sour face.

There was a level of hypocrisy in the man’s statement, and Grantaire was keen on voicing it.  “I don’t think you’re allowed to say that, Courf, considering you and Jehan win _all_ the awards for nauseating PDA.”

Courfeyrac wrapped his arm around his boyfriend’s waist and pulled him in closer, to the point where Jehan was practically sitting on his lap (which was pretty standard anyway).  “Don’t listen to him, baby.  R’s just jealous of what we have.  Seriously, man, you need to get laid.”  As Courfeyrac took a bite of the garlic bread Jehan was offering, he remembered something.  “Although, maybe you _are_ trying to and I just haven’t realized it until now.  Didn’t I see you and Enjy at the froyo shop the other day?  What was that all about?”

The scruff on Grantaire’s face did a good job of hiding the blush that was forming.  Cosette and Gavroche exchanged knowing looks but didn’t dare breathe a word.  “What?  Is froyo all of a sudden code for something else?  We had an argument and Enjolras made up for it with strawberry frozen yogurt.  That’s it.”

“An argument?” Courfeyrac repeated.  “So, was our fearless leader the reason you were such a dick all week?  Because, I mean, if he gets you that riled up, maybe you two should work out your frustrations horizontally, if you catch my drift.”

Grantaire took off his shoe and threw it at Courfeyrac, narrowly missing Jehan (who he did not want to target).  “Stop being a perv, Courfeyrac!  Just because I’m not brooding anymore doesn’t mean I won’t beat the shit out of you.  Enjolras and I had a petty disagreement, but we talked it over and decided to be friends again.  But that’s all we are, friends.  And I’m okay with that.”  There was a slight hesitation in Grantaire’s voice before he said the last part, but only Cosette caught onto it.

Everyone finished eating in silence for a few moments until something triggered in Cosette’s brain.  “Oh my gosh!  I almost forgot to tell you guys.  So, I think one of my residents has a crush on me.”  She figured it was as good a time as any to share this news considering Grantaire put a lid on the previous topic and she wanted to help steer the group away from it.

Grantaire shook his head mockingly.  “Let me guess, you batted your eyelashes at them once and now they pick up your dry cleaning and send you flowers each morning.  That’s a powerful weapon you got there, Cosette.  You really should be more careful with where you aim it.”

Used to Grantaire’s taunts, Cosette continued as if he hadn’t spoken.  “I don’t know _who_ just yet, but I came back from my last class today and found this slipped under my door.”  She pulls out a folded piece of paper from her purse.  “It’s…a love letter.”

The color drained from Marius’ face and all he could do was stare at the object in her hand.  The windowsill he was perched on was not at a vantage point to make out the words on the page, but all of his deep-seeded fears came to a head as he realized he may already know the words by heart.

“Ooh!” Musichetta muses, relinquishing herself from Bossuet and Joly’s grasp long enough to peer over Cosette’s shoulder curiously.  “You’ve got a secret admirer!  That is so cute!  Read it!”

The blonde-haired woman responded at the same instant that Marius squealed at the back of his throat, so his distress went unnoticed.  “I don’t think that’s really appropriate.  I mean, once we discover their identity, they might get embarrassed at your knowing the letter’s contents.”

“Why?  Is it scandalous?”

“No,” the blonde explained, “it’s actually very sweet, but also very personal.  I don’t want them to think I’m making fun of them by sharing something that they obviously wanted to keep secret.”

Jehan was putting two and two together now, glancing nervously at a frazzled, dumbstruck Marius and glaring daggers at the man he could only assume was the culprit behind this turn of events (who looked extremely guilty and would probably be sleeping alone tonight as punishment).  “That’s very nice of you, Cosette,” Jehan said.  “The contents of that letter were not meant for our eyes or ears.  For all we know, the person may not have even sent it.  These things often get placed in the wrong hands.  But, these things aside, I think it’s really nice that someone took the time to write you a letter instead of an email or text.”

Cosette smiled.  “Yeah, it does have a romantically old-fashioned air about it, doesn’t it?  I kind of like the thrill of guessing who sent it.  I mean, there are 22 residents on my floor, and judging by the literary references used in this letter, that actually narrows it down to maybe eight possibilities but—”

“What if it’s someone from a different floor?” Courfeyrac prompted devilishly.  The redheaded poet sitting next to him subtly elbowed him in the gut.  He looked wounded but Jehan wasn’t giving him any pity, instead moving further away from Courfeyrac on the tiny couch.

It was this exchange and a quick look at Marius—pale and frightened—that clued Eponine into the perplexity of this situation.  Her insides chilled.  Was this _the_ letter?  The letter that Marius was too afraid to give to Cosette but somehow wound up in her hands anyway?  This was not going at like Eponine hoped.

“Do you think?” Cosette asked, looking at Courfeyrac.  “I guess anyone could show up on my floor.  Gav did it, after all.”  Gavroche shrugged noncommittally in response.  Meanwhile, Marius looked as if he was a time bomb seconds away from exploding.  Even Cosette had noticed that something was off about him.  “Are you alright, Marius?  You don’t look too hot.”

Her question startled him.  “Huh?  Oh, no.  I’m fine.  I mean—”  Marius practically jumped out of his seat, feeling like the sooner he got out of this claustrophobic room, the better.  Almost everyone in the group gave him a strange look.  “I just remembered, I have this thing…I have to find…I just need to…okay, bye.”

The rest of the evening was unbearably awkward but Cosette didn’t have the foggiest idea why.

 


	14. Bright and Bold Are The Fires We Set After You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note about this chapter: At the meeting, when everyone is heatedly discussing the state of the economy, the language may seem a little advanced for your average college freshmen, but I wanted to show how much these meetings have changed them and how devoted they are to Enjolras' cause. As to the discussion itself, some of the material was taken from news that occurred in 2012 but it is dispersed with fictional elements as well because the story behind Adrien Petitjean, Enjolras' father, is slowly starting to emerge.
> 
> Any questions or overall comments, shout at me yo!
> 
> Toodles! ; )

Christmas was merry and the food was delectable and the memories were heartwarming, but like most things, didn’t last long.  The new year arrived and with it came the mourning over home-cooked meals, pillowtop mattresses, and beloved pets that, sadly, would not fit in their luggage to take back to school.

To embrace the cliché, home really is where the heart is.  It is warm and welcoming.  It is familiar and safe.  It…

Alright, the truth of the matter is that home isn’t that way for everyone.  Home is what you make of it—and for the residents of 5A, home meant reuniting with friends after three weeks of little to no contact.

Courfeyrac stepped out of the elevator with two suitcases in hand and a grinning redhead clinging to his back like a small, needy child.

“Whasssup, homies!” he shouted energetically, the sound reverberating off the walls.  There was no discernible response to Courfeyrac’s greeting which led him to believe that the others had either not yet returned or simply took comfort in being behind closed doors at present.  He really hoped it was the former.

“What?  No love for the poet and his ever-charming leading man?” he said, still shouting to no one in particular.

Enjolras was the first to come out of hiding, opting only to peak his head out so as to make a quick retreat.  “As expected, Courfeyrac, your absence within these walls was felt…and I already miss that feeling.”

Courfeyrac smiled and pretended to be flattered.  “Aw shucks, Enjy.  I’m honored that you even thought of me.  Mark my words, though.  By the end of this year, I will attack you with my bear hug of love and you will hug me back.”

Their blonde advisor rolled his eyes before making that hasty retreat back into his room, as planned.

Jehan rested his chin on his boyfriend’s shoulder, his lips tantalizingly close to the man’s ear.  “Alright, sailor.  Time to put me down.”

“Is that necessary?  I mean, we’re both going to the same place.”  Courfeyrac slid a hand up Jehan’s thigh suggestively.

With considerable effort, the small poet wriggled free from his boyfriend’s grasp and reached for his suitcase—the emerald green one with pink polka dots.  “Nice try, but I have to go unpack and you have to go apologize to someone.”  Courfeyrac pouted, looking very much like a kid coming out of a toy store empty-handed.  “I’m not going to let you put this off any longer.  You’ve had three weeks to plan out how you were going to explain your abominable actions.  No more stalling.  He’s your roommate after all and it will only get worse the longer you put it off.”

Courfeyrac was about to retort—it would have been a lame retort, but he was willing to try anything that might stop him from going to his suite and facing his worst fears—until a door opened and distracted them both.

There was a high-pitched squeal before a dark-haired, voluptuous woman bounced over to Jehan, wrapping his small frame within her well-toned arms.  “Oh my gosh, Jean Prouvaire!  I forgot how much I missed you!  I know three weeks is miniscule compared to the 8 ½ months we’re in school, and don’t get me wrong, I had lots of fun with Ep and Gav over break, but I just—hold the phone, are those blonde highlights?”

Jehan smiled nervously as Musichetta began to run her fingers through his long locks.  “I did it over break.  Do you like it?”

“You look like a goddess!  Although, I must warn you, if you used a dye with p-Phenylenediamine, you need to moisturize the shit out of your hair.  It strips all the lipids and can cause serious damage.  A natural conditioner, something with almond oil, should help though.”

Jehan was impressed.  “Does this mean you’ve given up NASA in pursuit of starting your own hair care line?”

“Haha,” Musichetta said sardonically.  “We were just talking about it in our chem lab last month.  You know that once the info gets in my head, it never leaves.”

“Hey, are Joly and Bossuet back yet?” Courfeyrac finally piped in, hoping all that boring hair talk was through.

Musichetta looked around in confusion.  “Hm, that’s funny.  I thought I heard something but it’s probably just the wind.  Anyway, Jehan—since you’re the only person standing next to me right now—welcome back and make sure you stop by Joly and Bossuet’s room tonight, okay?  We’re resurrecting Classy Ladies Night!  Oh, and it’s invite only, so no guests.  Ciao!”

“Was that some kind of a joke?” Courfeyrac asked Musichetta’s retreating form.  He got louder the further away she became.  “Because I didn’t find it very funny!  Fine, just keep on walking!  It doesn’t affect me!”

A moment later, Eponine rounded the corner from the girl’s bathroom..  “Hey, Jehan,” she said with a small wave.

The poet waved back.

“Hey, Ep,” Courfeyrac greeted hopefully.

Eponine’s flicker of a wave transformed into an obscene finger gesture before she wordlessly ducked into her room.

There was silence for the next several seconds, as Courfeyrac tried to process their friends’ change in behavior.  When he finally spoke, his voice was small.  “Jehan?”

“Yeah, baby,” the redhead replied, stroking his boyfriend’s back sympathetically.

“Remember when I was moping in solitude about not being with you?  And how everyone was worried and tried to get me to come out of my room and Eponine brought me soup?”  Jehan nodded.  “I miss that.”

Jehan shifted Courfeyrac so that they were face to face, playing with the curly strands of hair behind Courfeyrac’s ear soothingly.  “You know that’s not true; you’d just be replacing one misery with another.  If you want everyone to stop ignoring you then you have to do something about it.  Courf, you have to talk to Marius.”

The brunette looked down at his feet, sulking.  “Yeah, but what if he doesn’t want to listen?  I can’t stand thinking of Marius being mad at me forever.”

“That’s because he’s your friend,” Jehan said pointedly, “a friend who took care of you when you were at your worst.  The fact of the matter is that you screwed up.  Big time.  But you can still fix this if you go in there and apologize.”

Courfeyrac drew in a deep breath, trying to work up the courage to do just that—but things like this were easier said than done.

A devilish idea popped into Jehan’s head.  “I’ll tell you what, if you try to rectify this right now, then we can do that thing we attempted over break before we got…interrupted.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes bulged instantly.  “Wait, you mean  _that_  thing?”  The poet smiled, a hint of mischief in his eyes.  Courfeyrac snatched the boy by the waist, drawing him closer until their foreheads touched.  “Jean Prouvaire, you sure know how to make one hell of a bargain.  Alright, you win.  I’ll be the man you want me to be.”

Jehan sealed his proclamation with a soft kiss and a not-so-gentle shove in the right direction before heading to his room to carefully unpack his belongings.

Courfeyrac walked with intrepid steps toward his door.  The hallway looked ominous and, somehow, never-ending.  What waited for him behind that slate gray door?  Would Marius be armed with a baseball bat, ready to strike at a moment’s notice?  Or would he pretend like nothing even happened and allow them to continue on as before?  Okay, neither of those options was very likely.  This was Marius, after all.  Marius, who disapproved of almost everything Courfeyrac did or said.  Marius, who still called him ‘friend’ in spite of their differences.  Marius, who had looked after him when he was emotionally tormented.

And how did Courfeyrac repay him?  By going behind his back and delivering a strictly confidential letter to the woman he secretly fawned over.

Perhaps, Courfeyrac did see the error in his ways, after all.  Perhaps, it was finally time for him to be a true friend.

Turning his key in the lock, the curly-haired man slowly opened the door to find…well, certainly not anything he expected to find.  The suite was silent and obnoxiously tidy for a boy’s dormitory.  Upon closer inspection, Courfeyrac noticed that little white labels were now placed on many of the items in the main living space.  Most importantly, they all had Marius’ name on them.  What was that all about?

“Oh, good.  You’re here.”  Having left the door open upon his arrival, Courfeyrac didn’t hear Marius and Grantaire enter until they were practically right behind him.  It even took him a moment to process that Marius had actually used the word ‘good’ when referring to his presence in the room.  Did this mean everything would be okay, and that he wouldn’t have to grovel like a helpless, insecure lover?

Courfeyrac smiled timidly.  “Hey, guys.  Did you have a good break?”

“No time for pleasantries, I’m afraid,” Marius replied soberly.  That wasn’t a very good sign.  “We’ve been waiting for you to arrive because I have some new house rules that I wish to enact.”

Grantaire flopped onto the nearby couch.  “Let me guess, this has to do with your new label maker obsession.”

Marius waited for Courfeyrac to also take a seat before he began his explanation, acting like an authoritative figure as he sternly stood before them with his hands clasped behind his back.  “Last semester’s expenses ended up being higher than my budget because I was kind enough to share my food, as well as other supplies, with the both of you so it’s high time things changed around here.  Everything with my name on it belongs to me.  Therefore, if you wish to borrow my hair gel or eat some of my Cheez-its, you have to ask my permission first.”

Grantaire snorted in amusement until he noticed the unwavering look on Marius’ face.  “Wait…you’re serious?”

“As a heart attack,” the freckle-faced boy replied evenly.  “I’m not putting up with another morning waking up to an empty box of cocoa puffs.  You’re both adults that can easily buy your own groceries if you get a job or at least stop going out to drink every night.”

Grantaire raised his hands defensively.  “I’m gonna ignore your snide remarks about my drinking habits in favor of asking you a question.  So, as long as I ask you first, am I still allowed to eat some of those Cheez-its?”

Marius sighed.  “Potentially.  I still think you guys need to start buying your own snacks, but on occasion, yes, you can.”

“Cool.”  The scruffy brunette paused before cautiously adding, “Can I have some right now?”

It was in moments like these when Marius forgot Grantaire was actually six years older than him.  “Fine.  Go ahead.”

He jumped off the couch and ransacked the corner sanctioned for perishable goods, which all belonged to Marius, of course.  Meanwhile, Courfeyrac still couldn’t find it in him to speak.  A part of him felt like Marius had gone to these great lengths in retaliation against him.  Another part told him he was overreacting and that Marius was just being Marius.

The only way he knew how to discover the truth was to push the boundaries a bit.  “Can I have some Cheez-its as well?”

Marius’ response was immediate.  “Go fuck yourself.” 

Nope.  Courfeyrac was not forgiven.

“Come on, Marius,” Courfeyrac said as he stood, trying to stop the man from fleeing into his room.  “It was an impulsive decision, and it was wrong of me to take something that didn’t belong to me, I see that now, but I was just trying to push you two together.  I was doing it for you!”

Marius was still so furious he couldn’t even look his roommate in the eye.  “Grantaire, if you need anything I’ll be in my room.”  He then shut the door in Courfeyrac’s face.

With a mouth full of Cheez-its, Grantaire put in his two cents worth.  “I’m gonna go out on a limb and say you’re not out of the doghouse yet.”

Courfeyrac roughly ran his hands through his curly hair.  “You think?” he answered sarcastically.

This was not the way this scenario was supposed to play out.  Marius was supposed to at least listen to his side of the story—not that Courfeyrac’s attempt at an apology was worth a sit down, but Marius NEVER swore and that meant things were worse than Courfeyrac originally thought.  He needed time and he needed a plan, something that would make Marius see how important his friendship was.

For now, he had to be patient and put up with his roommate and the rest of floor 5A being mad at him.  His time for atonement would present itself eventually.

 

\------ 

 

The first meeting of the Friends of the ABC since the commencement of the new semester was in full swing.  They were planning hot button topics for their upcoming lecture (sanctioned by one of Enjolras’ professors) on the economic downturn and steps that can be taken to improve the U.S. job market.

“What we need are skills training and adjustment programs for those on the cusp of qualifying for the jobs they want.  If companies won’t lower their standards, then the government needs to provide assistance to meet that demand.”

“Income polarization will still be an issue even if we can instill these programs.  In the last few years, they’ve calculated that the wealthiest 1% now has 58% of the income gains.”

“Ugh.  Please, no more discussions about the 99%.  I thought this ended when Occupy Wall Street did.”

“Listen, the point that needs to be addressed is how inefficiently these big companies are spending their money.  For example, did you know that last year, Pfizer cut its research budget and laid off 1,100 employees while ‘coincidentally’ buying back $5 billion worth of stock?  That wasn’t a coincidence, I was being sarcastic.  Campbell Soup and HP are showing similar trends.”

“I think we’re forgetting that this lecture is geared toward college students.  We need to address how this never-ending recession has a direct effect on their education as well as any future job prospects.”

“What about the issues arising that surround political clout?  Schools have showed a decrease in public spending and it’s believed to have ties with the influx of wealthy endorsers.”

“And yet there’s still a rise in college tuition, which makes it difficult for lower-income and middle class families to progress and do their part in closing the income gap.”

“My dad got laid off last month.”

The debates ceased and all eyes were on Bossuet, who had, until now, remained silent the entire evening.  Musichetta and Joly, both well aware of his upsetting announcement, snuggled closer to the bald man for support.

“Bossuet, I,” Enjolras started, strangely sympathetic and at a loss for words.  “I’m sorry.”

Bossuet shrugged, though deep down the emotional turmoil was there.  “Thus is life, right?  The hardest part was giving up all my Christmas presents.  I could tell my dad didn’t want to, but at the same time he knew we needed the extra money.”

Everyone’s hearts went out to their friend as they gave him small smiles from across the table.  At least he had another family he could count on if things get really tough.

“You see, this is the sort of thing our peers need to be aware of,” Enjolras finally said once he found his angle.  “I’m not saying we out Bossuet, but if we share a personal, yet completely anonymous, story that highlights how severe unemployment has become, perhaps it will make an impact.”

Bossuet nodded.  “I don’t mind.  I mean, whatever it takes to get these people to stop believing in Obama’s ‘firm belief’ that they are ‘working hard to ensure the economy makes a full recovery’.”

Musichetta massaged the man’s hand with her thumb.  “What do you expect, Boss?  He’s a politician.  Actually, he’s  _the_  politician.”

“None of these dignitaries care enough about the job market to enact change,” Combeferre added morosely.  He then shifted the conversation toward a less-approached topic.  “For instance, I read somewhere that Petitjean has flown to Panama without disclosing any reasons as to why.”

Enjolras and Grantaire simultaneously snapped their heads in Combeferre’s direction, the name striking a chord for both of them.  The rest of the group remained oblivious.

“What does the Secretary of State’s whereabouts have to do with the downturn?” Feuilly asked, curious about Combeferre’s remark but not seeing enough of a connection to truly care.

“I just think it’s interesting that he was sent there when our government’s efforts should be focused here.”

Enjolras refused to hold his tongue any longer.  “Alright, ‘Ferre.  Though I vaguely understand your point, Feuilly’s right.  This information bears no relevance in assisting our lecture on the current job market.  Now, I’ve reserved the room for next Wednesday at 5pm, which doesn’t give up that much time to prep and rehearse.  So far, we have economic trends covering the last two years and Bossuet’s personal story, which will be addressed anonymously, of course.  I’ll hand over all our materials to Gavroche tomorrow so he can get started on the power point, which means that now is the time for any last minute additions.”

Now, Grantaire was, by no means, a genius—Gavroche had already coveted that title—but he also wasn’t an idiot.  He saw the look on Enjolras’ face when Petitjean was mentioned.  Grantaire knew Combeferre’s news didn’t sit right with him, and he had a hunch it involved Panama.  “If no one has anything else to add, I’d like to hear more about this trip our beloved Secretary of State has taken.”

“Why?” Enjolras gritted through his teeth, eyes narrowed fiercely on Grantaire. 

He knew he would get heat for drawing attention to Enjolras’ father—a fact still only known to Combeferre and himself—and was willing to take one for the team, as they say.  There was also the added bonus of witnessing Enjolras’ angry lip curl, which was probably the sexiest image in existence.

“I just find it a bit odd is all,” he responded placidly.  “I mean, he has no reason to go there since our treaty with Panama hasn’t been called into question in over a decade.  Unless he’s interested in exporting bananas.  Does the U.S. have a shortage of bananas right now?”

Enjolras dropped his pen and folded his hands across the table as he prepared himself for this battle of wits—a battle he really didn’t want to get into because it was a sensitive subject and Grantaire knew that and why couldn’t he just drop it?  “Foreign affairs was not created merely to sign treatises and deplete other countries’ resources, and, furthermore—”

“You know,” Grantaire interrupted, which was a ballsy move, but stoking the fire was a bit of hobby for him, “now that I think about it, Petitjean hasn’t been to Panama since he was first appointed—at least, not to the public’s knowledge.”

Enjolras was livid on the inside, but kept a cool exterior for the sake of everyone else in the room.  “I’m not quite sure I understand what you’re implying, Grantaire.  Better yet, something tells me you’re not fully aware yourself.”

“Do you guys really have to have it out right now?” Bahorel half-whined.  “Vampire Diaries starts in 20 minutes and I’d really like to wrap up this meeting before then.”

“You’re absolutely right, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, continuing this verbal sparring match and ignoring everyone else.  “Do you ever tire of hearing that?  That was rhetorical, by the way.  I already know the answer.  All joking aside, I believe I started this conversation not because I wanted to share some conspiracy theory, but because I was genuinely curious as to why Combeferre brought up Petitjean at this time.  I know you’re all hellbent on believing his tasks are irrelevant, but our bespectacled friend is smart, and I can only assume that he mentioned this recent development for a reason.”

Deep down, Combeferre knew from the beginning that he’d appreciate having Grantaire around.  Not only did he feel honored by this compliment, but Grantaire was actually spot on.  There was a bigger story there.  He wanted desperately to share what he knew because it was important and seemed like the right thing to do, but Enjolras had been his best friend for many years and trust was a big part of that friendship.  Seeing the pleading, distraught look on the blonde’s face was all it took for him to make his decision.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Grantaire, but I only know what I happened to read in the paper yesterday.  There’s probably a perfectly logical reason why he’s there and we’ll all find out upon his return.”

Gavroche stretched sleepily.  “Yeah, R, just drop it so we can all go back to our rooms.”

But no amount of coercion could sway the 24 year-old.  If anything, he wanted to kick it up a notch.  “You’ve got him wrapped around your pristine little finger, don’t you?” he then asked their leader, a slightly sadistic expression marring his face.

“What are you talking about?” Enjolras replied unemotionally.

He took the bait and from there Grantaire just rolled with it.  “Combeferre.  He’s your confidant and your secret keeper and you have the power to shut him up instantly if you don’t approve of what he wants to say.”

There goes that lip curl.  It was paired with a frighteningly furrowed brow as Enjolras stood to effectively glare down at Grantaire and enact his authority in this situation.  “You are treading on very dangerous ground, Grantaire.  I suggest you stop before you say something that you will deeply regret.”

In his brief time knowing him, Grantaire had done many foolish and selfish things involving Enjolras, but looking back on it now, he didn’t regret a single one of those moments.  However, it goes without saying that there’s a first time for everything.  Yes, Grantaire did want to know what secret about his father Enjolras was hiding, but perhaps this wasn’t the time or place for such an admonition.

“And what about you?” Grantaire asked with an artful quirk of his eyebrow as he slouched back against his chair.  “Do you have any regrets, dear Apollo?”

That dreaded nickname.  The one that brought back memories of Grantaire’s unmasked worship and the oddly tantalizing aroma of his beer-stained breath and his perfectly taut, pink lips…No!  Enjolras needed to banish these thoughts.  They didn’t belong here, at least, not now.  Grantaire really should’ve known better than to bring this up.  They had their talk.  Wasn’t he willing to accept the way things had to be at present?

Posture more erect, Enjolras made his reply with his head turned, because he couldn’t say the words to Grantaire’s face.  “If I did, believe me, you would know about them.”

An ice cold chill crawled up the 24 year-old’s spine.  He was hollow again, a shell of a man that was only complete when Enjolras approved of him.  He didn’t necessarily want to be so dependent on the blonde, but from the moment he first laid eyes on Enjolras, he knew he was trapped.  Invisible handcuffs chained him to the man for good—even during times like this, when it was clear Enjolras felt nothing but contempt for him.

Why did he have to lead him on so much?  It might have been easier for Grantaire to escape had Enjolras not hinted at the possibility of his feelings being reciprocated.  Even when they did have their ‘talk’, the blonde was vague in his pronouncements and still asked the 24 year-old to patiently wait for any definite answer.

 

_“This is all very new to me, Grantaire.  I don’t think I_ can _tell you how I feel about you, considering I don’t even know what these feelings mean.”_

_“It’s honestly not that complicated.  You either feel an attraction toward me or you don’t.”_

_“Attraction is too oversimplified to use in this scenario.”_

_“Are you then saying that you’re ‘more’ than attracted to me?  Are you in love with me, Enjolras?”_

_“No!  That’s not what I—ugh!  What I mean is that my taste buds are attracted to this frozen yogurt and my eyes are attracted to the cars that go rushing by the window, but I’m not about to risk losing my job over either of them.”_

_“Am I worth the risk?”_

_“Why does a risk need to be made?  Why can’t we be as we were before, when we argued playfully and watched movies and just had a good time?  At least, until job security doesn’t factor into all of this.”_

_“Enjolras, I—”_

_“If you think it’s such a sacrifice for you to act as my friend, just remember what you’re asking me to sacrifice.”_

_“Fair point.  When do you graduate again?”_

_“May 10 th.”_

_“And thus the countdown begins.”_

 

The days had slowly started to tick down, but whether they were nearing a summer of utter happiness or ultimate doom Grantaire could not say.  Although, it would be really shitty for Enjolras to make him hopelessly wait for him all this time only to reject him come graduation.  That wasn’t going to happen, right?  Enjolras liked him, right?

 

Well, tonight he  _certainly_  did not.  Grantaire expected an earful from the blonde later.


	15. There's Pain in Suffering All Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I did it! I managed to not take forever with this chapter. Anyway, I'm really excited because next chapter is when it starts to get good. I know I've been holding out on you for a while and I'm sorry so I hope that future chapters will make up for it.
> 
> This fic turned out a lot longer than I planned but there are several plot points I still want to include so don't expect an ending to come too soon.
> 
> Alright, on with the show! ; )

“You were completely out of line yesterday.”

Grantaire would’ve jumped if he wasn’t so used to Enjolras showing up out of nowhere.  He was gracefully stealthy in that respect; a trait not often heard of and, therefore, easily admired.  “I know.”

Enjolras clucked his tongue.  “If you knew it was wrong, then why did you still do it?”

“You’re really choosing to question my motives now?” Grantaire asked brazenly, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets to keep them warm.  It was the middle of winter, a fact the 24 year-old often forgot in those rare moments he attended class.  The trek to his lecture hall seemed even more tedious whenever he forgot to grab his gloves or didn’t put on the down jacket Cosette forced him to buy.  “This isn’t the first time I’ve done something you disapprove of, Enjolras.”

“It’s not a matter of my approval,” the statuesque man replied heatedly.  He paused, unsure how to express what it was that he felt when Grantaire geared the conversation toward his estranged father last night.  “I just…I told you about him in confidence.  I trusted you.”

Grantaire temporarily removed his hands from his pockets to blow warm air into them, the biting winds piercing his skin like a thousand tiny needles.  Next time, he’d opt for taking the bus.  “Relax.  It’s not like I revealed any telling information about Petitjean, nor did I expose his relation to you.  I was merely asking questions—which I still mean to ask, by the way.  You haven’t told me the whole story, Apollo.”

“Please don’t call me that,” the blonde said uneasily, fixing his gaze on the familiar brick buildings and student-littered courtyards instead of Grantaire.  “I don’t like being constantly reminded that you see me in that light.  It puts a lot of pressure on me.  I can’t live up to those expectations.”

The scruffy, older man exhaled slowly, watching his warm breath swirl in front of him like a thinly-veiled cloud.  “It’s not an expectation.  I’m not asking you to be a god-like figure.  It’s just how I see you…all the time.”  He changed the topic because he knew Enjolras would give no response to that.  “Why won’t you tell me what your father’s done, what makes you hate him so much?”

This topic wasn’t much better as Enjolras could be visibly seen clenching his jaw.  “Is it not enough that I told you who I really am?”

“You can’t say that you ‘discovered too much’ and not tell me what the discovery was.  That’s like giving someone a half-empty box of chocolates.  You’ve tempted me with the whole box, Enjolras, and now it’s all I want.”

“That’s an unusual metaphor,” the blonde said, a bemused look on his perfectly angular face.

But Grantaire didn’t let Enjolras’ carefully arched brow distract him.  “Don’t change the subject.  Now, my guess is that the secret has something to do with Panama since Combeferre clearly knows more than he let on and—”

“Yes!” Enjolras interrupted, his booming voice almost to the point of shrieking.  “I told Combeferre everything because he has been my closest friend for nearly six years!  Grantaire, I’ve known you, what?  Four, maybe five months?  Why should I open up to you?!”

Grantaire stopped walking and turned to look at Enjolras head on.  The involuntary shivering hadn’t stopped but not even below freezing temperatures would make him run from this defining moment in their relationship. 

“Because, deep down, you want to.”

This gave the blonde pause.  What a presumptuous thing to say.  It was upsetting, to say the least, but Enjolras didn’t know if he was more upset at Grantaire for making such a brass assumption…or at himself for realizing that this was a truth he had been subconsciously avoiding.

As Grantaire stood before him now, red-nosed and sniffling, Enjolras knew without a doubt that he did want to tell the dark-haired man EVERYTHING.  Not just concerning his father, though.  He wanted to tell Grantaire about his mother and his precocious younger sister and the tricks he used to play on his nanny as a boy and the first time he kissed a girl (promptly running away after) and…and…the first time he fell in love.

But the funny thing was that Enjolras had never been in love before.  No single person had ever captured his heart in such a way that he wanted to unburden his soul to them while simultaneously shielding them away from any and all harm.  Was that what this was?

Was Enjolras falling in love with Grantaire?

If he was, Grantaire wouldn’t hear it from him.  Not like this.  Not here.  Not now.  Instead, taking in Grantaire’s caved-in posture and watching the way he feverishly rubbed his hands together just to feel a modicum of heat from the friction, Enjolras adeptly used his teeth to pry his black leather gloves off of his slender fingers.

“Patience is a virtue, Grantaire,” he remarked serenely as he began fitting the gloves onto the shabby man’s cold and calloused hands.  “You will know the truth, when I am ready to tell you.”

Not another word was spoken as Grantaire flexed his warming fingers—trying not to focus on where these gloves had been a moment ago—and watched the strangely fascinating blonde walk back toward the dormitory.

 

\-------

 

Eating dinner alone was starting to become a repetitious and cumbersome thing for Courfeyrac.  Most of Jehan’s courses this semester were in the evening and Courfeyrac wasn’t in the habit of waiting to eat dinner till after 8:30 pm and…well, it had been nearly two weeks since they all returned form break and most of the residents on floor 5A were still as cold to him as they were their first day back.

People really knew how to hold a grudge.

But they weren’t just people, Courfeyrac reminded himself.  They were his friends.  They were the people he wanted to share a large house with come graduation so he could continue to see them every day.

And now they all hated him and ignored him and refused to eat dinner anywhere within his vicinity.

College sucked.

Courfeyrac was leaving the cafeteria with his meal in hand—fully intending to mope in his room and eat all three pieces of this heart attack-inducing pizza—when a friendly face spotted him and called out his name.

It was Cosette.  She was at a small table by herself with several textbooks scattered around her as she absentmindedly stabbed at a chunk of fresh pineapple.  Her golden hair was glossy and hung over her right shoulder, covering a good part of the teal swoop neck sweater she wore—which really went nicely with her complexion.  He could definitely understand why Marius was so enamored by her.

“Hey,” she said brightly after Courfeyrac gingerly walked the few steps it took to reach her table.  He almost forgot about Cosette, amidst all the loathing looks he had recently been receiving.  Of course, she couldn’t be mad at him, she was still completely in the dark—which, now that he thought about it, was probably for the best.

“Hey,” he mimicked with a glimmer of a smile appearing on his face.  Courfeyrac then glanced down at the open books in front of her.  “Looks like you’ve got an eventful semester ahead if you’re already diligently hitting the books two weeks in.”

Cosette sighed in a way that reminded him of Ariel from The Little Mermaid—you know, childishly cute and innocent.  “I’m taking Journalism 150 Honors which means I have to come up with a thesis topic so they can approve it before Monday.  Ugh, I really hate thesis papers.  They give you hardly any parameters or guidelines which, initially, you think is cool and allows all this freedom but then you hit a sobering moment and think, ‘shit! What the hell do I want to write about?’ And then everything gets overanalyzed and you wonder if your idea is even good enough and you just wish you could go back to the days when your English teacher handed you a prompt on the symbolism of innocence in _To Kill a Mockingbird.”_

That was not the response Courfeyrac expected.  In fact, he wondered if it was best for him to leave her to her own devices because his resident sarcasm and ill-humor would probably provide little to no comfort in her distressed state.

She caught the look of startled surprise on his face and slumped down in her seat.  “Sorry.  I think I may have got in way over my head with this whole Honors Society thing.  It sounded good on paper, but _this_ tacked onto my normal course load as well as my RA responsibilities might’ve been a bit much for me to take on.”

Courfeyrac shrugged.  “We all have those moments.  You should’ve seen Jehan studying for his French 201 final.  Every time he messed up on his verb conjugation, he would snap one of his pencils in half and shout ‘merde!’ I had to buy him a whole new set of pencils. He often lets his frustrations escalate dramatically.”

“Glad to know I’m not the only one,” she mumbled softly, though knowing it really wasn’t much of a comfort.  Friendly company might be, however.  “You can sit down if you’d like.”

Courfeyrac had spent way too many nights eating alone to refuse.  Plus, maybe he could drop some hints about Marius to find out if she’s interested— _No! You’re meddling again, Courf! Don’t make things worse than they already are!_

He picked the seat that had the most table space—Cosette’s books really were everywhere—and began chowing down on his perfectly greasy and deliciously cheesy pizza.  Instead of eyeing the man disgustedly, Cosette looked envious of the Italian-American delicacy resting in his palm.  “Do you want some?” he offered after swallowing.

“Ugh.  Don’t tempt me.  I’m still trying to work off all the food I ate over the holidays, so carbs are not my friend right now.”  Cosette bit her lip and tried to focus on her books again, but the aroma of cheese and pepperoni kept sucking her back in.  “Oh, fuck it.”  She lunged forward and snatched a piece of his pizza, took a large bite, and then placed it back in the container as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

She had moxie, he had to give her that much.  “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”

Cosette nearly choked on the food she was munching.  A few coughs and a heavy gulp later, she verbally expressed her mortification.  “What?  Why would you ask that?”

He wasn’t entirely sure.  It just kind of slipped out before he had a chance to really think about what he was doing.  Thinking out loud was a nasty habit that he didn’t know how to get rid of.  “That came out wrong.  I meant, well, I’ve just noticed that you never really talk about the men in your life other than Grantaire and I’ve never seen you canoodling with anyone either.  I don’t know, I just find it all a bit surprising because you’re gorgeous, smart, and so laid back and someone surely has to have realized how great of a catch you are by now.”

“Wow,” Cosette said breathlessly, a stunning blush painting her cheeks.  “That’s a very flattering thing to say, Courf.  But, in answer to your question, it’s just not something I’m interested in at the moment.  I’ve found that I don’t really need a boyfriend to make me happy.”

Courfeyrac could relate to this.  “That’s kind of how I felt…before the right one came into my life.”  He was smiling dreamily now.

“And I’m very happy for you both,” she replied sweetly.  She closed the book in front of her, abandoning any hope in continuing her search for her journalism thesis topic.  “I know just as well as anyone that love is a profound thing, and I’m sure that I would fall into its trappings if the right guy came along, but I’m just not in the mood to look for romance at the moment.  I’ll wait until it finds me.”

“And you don’t think it already has?” Courfeyrac inquired, cocking an eyebrow knowingly.

“You mean the letter?”  Cosette shrugged half-heartedly.  “I don’t know.  I mean, a part of me wants to discover who wrote it, but another part is terrified of finding out the truth and shattering this illusion that I kind of already created.  What if I’m disappointed?  What if I end up hurting his feelings because I don’t reciprocate them?”

Polishing off his last piece of pizza, Courfeyrac wiped his mouth before responding.  “That’s an interesting approach.  Very mature, if you ask me.  I guess…I guess you just have to decide whether or not these are risks you’re willing to take.”  While on this topic, Courfeyrac’s curiosity won out.  “Are you any closer to finding out your secret admirer’s identity?”

“Not really,” Cosette replied, pushing pieces of fruit around with her fork—having no real intention to eat any more of it.  “None of the students on my floor have been acting any differently toward me, which makes me think you were right and that it might be someone from another floor.  Obviously, that does _not_ narrow down my options.  I mean, sure, I’ve had hopes of who it might be, but continuing to fantasize about these things will only lead to disappointment so it’s probably for the best that I just give up and move on with my life.”

A wicked grin made one half of Courfeyrac’s mouth curve up.  “You’ve had hopes?  Who’s in these fantasies of yours, Cosette?”

She got all flustered then, keeping her hands occupied by playing with the long neckline of her sweater.  “Fantasy wasn’t exactly the right word.  It’s more of a thought—and a silly thought, at that.  Ugh, okay, can we please talk about something else?”

Courfeyrac’s face hadn’t lit up this much since he found out Jehan owned a pair of plaid suspenders.  “Oh my gosh, this is adorable!  You totally have a crush on someone.  Spill.  Now.”

“Are you really not going to spare me this embarrassment?”  There was a pleading edge to her voice.

“Is it someone I know?” he asked, intrigued and ignoring her plea altogether.  This was just starting to get fun for Courfeyrac.  It was kind of like solving a puzzle.

Cosette sighed jadedly.  “More than know.”

Courfeyrac looked completely baffled by her response until awkward realization dawned on him.  “Oh.  Listen, Cosette, you’re a doll and I really am flattered but I’m pretty committed to Jehan so—”

“Dream on,” Cosette interceded, shoving him playfully.  “I know all about your sordid history, Courf.  I’m not interested in womanizing party-goers.  Instead, I want someone who’s willing to stay in and watch a romantic comedy with me.  I want someone thoughtful and humble, who can’t resist helping an old lady cross the street because he buys into that cheesy chivalry stuff.  I want someone who brings me hot tea instead of wine.  I want—”

“Someone like Marius,” Courfeyrac finished thoughtfully, his expression blank.

“Yeah,” she said, nodding mournfully.  “Someone exactly Marius.”

Courfeyrac abruptly stood, his empty Styrofoam container flying across the table in the sudden chaos that erupted.  “This is—Christ on a cracker!—and he doesn’t?—holy crap, it’s like Christmas all over again!”

“Whoa,” Cosette said, alarmed by his change in behavior, “slow down there, tiger.  Why is that good news for you?”

“Because,” he started, but then stopped himself.  _Don’t do it, Courf.  This isn’t your secret to tell._   “Because, I think you two would be perfect together.  I mean, your temperaments are pretty similar—kind-hearted with a bit of a mean streak if provoked.  Plus, you both enjoy weird things like NPR and watching historical dramas.”

Cosette twirled a few strands of her long hair around her finger.  “I just love talking to him.  He’s so real, you know?  I feel like he’s one of the few boys besides Grantaire that I can truly trust.  But it doesn’t matter anyway because I know there’s something going on with him and Eponine and I don’t want to—”

“What do you mean ‘going on’?” Courfeyrac asked suddenly and not waiting for her response.  “Because if you’re implying that they’re secretly dating, I can attest as Marius’ roommate that they are not.”

“But he’s always spending time with her, and I see the way she looks at him.  I just thought that…”  She trailed off, watching Courfeyrac emphatically shake his head. 

“They’re just friends, Cosette.  I promise.”  Courfeyrac needed an escape before he said too much.  But this was the sign he had been waiting for and he knew he had to take it upon himself to come up with a plan to get Marius and Cosette to confront each other about their mutual feelings once and for all.  “My advice would be to get Marius alone and just talk to him.  You might be surprised by what he has to say.”  He reached across the table for his empty food container to throw it away before leaving.

 

\------- 

 

Several days later, Enjolras was stapling some information about the negative effects of alcohol on the bulletin board outside of his room when the elevator doors opened.

It was Grantaire, looking as handsome as ever with his bushy dark hair (in desperate need of a trim) and that military green jacket that went remarkably well with his olive skin tone.  Enjolras’ reserve was cracking and he found it increasingly difficult to be in Grantaire’s presence and not want to hold him close and breathe in his scent.

“Hey,” he said, putting up a decent front and forcing himself to act casual.  ‘Hey’ was a non-committal greeting that friends said, right?

But Grantaire didn’t respond, instead turning the corner toward his suite with his face turned down and his shoulders slumped low.  It wasn’t like him to not respond at all, unless…unless…

Something was wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on Tumblr at youknownothingenjolras.tumbr.com! Also, leave a comment if you have one. I love reading them! <3


	16. No One's Ever Meant to Go Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eek! Guys, we're getting close to the end. Not yet, but close. Now all the good stuff is happening. I've been wanting to write these chapters since I first started the fic. Anywho, enjoy!

_Something was wrong._

“Grantaire?” Enjolras called tentatively.  There was still no response from the 24 year-old as he dragged his feet toward his room.  Enjolras had just about enough of this.  If there was even an inkling of a future for them, this habit of avoiding each other whenever a problem arose needed to stop.  “Grantaire, please don’t walk away from me.”  His voice was stern, yet a hint of emotion lingered in the back of his throat.

This did the trick, stopping the brunette in his tracks, though he chose not to turn around.  “What do you want, Enjolras?”

The blonde breathed out through his nostrils.  “What do I want?  For starters, I’d like it if you’d tell me when I’ve done something wrong, instead of just angrily walking away from me—which you do quite often, by the way.”

“I’m on a very thin rope right now,” Grantaire said, tight-lipped, “and I don’t need your insults.”

“It’s not an insult, I—”  Enjolras was already losing his patience with Grantaire and he didn’t want it to be like this.  He wanted to prove that they could talk like two rational human beings, instead of continuing down this path wrought with heated discourses and the overwhelming need to escape each other’s company.  He placed the stapler in his hands on the table next to him and cautiously approached the disgruntled man, speaking softly and hoping to circumvent any reason for their conversation to be overheard by other residents.  “I don’t mean to insult you, I just think that your behavior is coming off a bit…hypocritical—considering I’m the one trying to work out whatever it is that’s happened between us.  I mean, at the very least, you could tell me what I’ve said or done or perhaps not said or not done that made you so—”

“Jesus Christ, Enjolras!” Grantaire shouted with alarming ferocity as he wheeled around to face the unrelenting blonde.  “Not everything is about you!  My life and my problems don’t fucking revolve around you!”

Enjolras was punched in the chest, figuratively, that is.  It wasn’t Grantaire’s words that wounded him—Enjolras could take verbal abuse almost as well as he could dish it out.  No, it was the dark circles that lay heavy underneath his bloodshot eyes, the steadfast quiver of his lower lip, and the closed off way that he carried himself that cut Enjolras deep.  He had never seen Grantaire this physically hurt before, and he never wanted to again.

“Come here,” he beckoned tenderly, reaching his hand out for the other to hold.  There was a bit of reluctance on Grantaire’s end, but he quickly realized how much he needed a shoulder to cry on and took solace in the outstretched hand as he seized it.  Enjolras started dragging them back toward his room.  “Talk to me.”

Grantaire was confused by Enjolras’ abnormal behavior, but he wasn’t about to argue over the one thing he wanted most in this world.

Enjolras led the man into his room and closed the door behind them.  He sat Grantaire down on his bed and helped him remove his coat before going to the minifridge and grabbing a couple of cold beers—Newcastle, none of that cheap shit anymore as Grantaire did teach him to have some standards.

“So,” the blonde started, using a bottle opener to effortlessly pop off the caps before handing one to Grantaire, “I’m guessing you had a rough day.”

The rattled brunette laughed, although it wasn’t really a laugh, or at least not a real one.  No amount of skilled humor could lift his spirits enough to laugh honestly.  “Yeah, you could say that.  Listen, Enjolras, I appreciate the effort and all, but you don’t have to do this.  I can take care of myself.”

Enjolras took a seat beside him.  He was close—like ‘really’ close—and unnervingly silent as he took a few swigs of the dark amber liquid.  He then looked at Grantaire from underneath his long, glossy eyelashes.  “I don’t doubt that you can take care of yourself.  All I’m saying is that right now, you don’t have to.  I’m here and willing to listen to whatever you want to tell me.  And if you’re not ready to talk about it just yet, then I’m perfectly content with just sitting here with you while we finish off the rest of this six pack.  I could even put in a movie if you’d like.”

Who was this man?  It was as if Enjolras, the untouchable Greek god, was replaced with Enjolras, the man.  It was easy to forget that the angelic blonde was human, but to see him behave so compassionately and sympathetically was almost too much for Grantaire to comprehend.

“No,” the dark-haired man said somberly as he gazed at his perfect, exquisite Adonis.  “A movie would be too much noise.  I got enough of that going on in my head right now.”

Enjolras nodded, the look of concern never leaving his eyes.  “Did you want to talk about it?”

Grantaire shrugged languidly as he polished off his beer.  “What’s there to talk about?”  He felt the sting of tears return and looked away so Enjolras wouldn’t have to see him like this.  “The whole world is full of assholes, that’s all.  I mean, I already knew that, but I was fortunately reminded of this fact earlier today.  My mom’s an asshole.  People who don’t know how to drive their fucking cars are definitely assholes—”

He was getting louder and more aggressive with each word and Enjolras was really starting to worry.  “Grantaire, what happened?  Was there an accident?”

“Veterinarians who charge an arm and a leg in order to save your pet are assholes,” he continued, unable to answer the blonde’s question directly.  “Did I already mention that my mom’s an asshole?  ‘Cause she is.  A big one.”

This was enough information for Enjolras to put two and two together now.  He hesitantly placed a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder, wondering if this crossed any borders of their friendship but no longer caring.  “Was it Bowser?  Did something happen to Bowser?”

And that’s when the dam broke, because the last time Grantaire heard that name was when his mother begrudgingly said it over the phone this morning, paired with heart-wrenching news.  How did Enjolras even remember the name of his dog?  Grantaire could only recall mentioning Bowser to the blonde once or twice.  Maybe he really did care, and knowing that he cared, even just a little bit, was cause enough for Grantaire to lay his burdens bare.

“She shouldn’t have left him in the front yard,” Grantaire mumbled incoherently between shaky breaths.  “He gets easily distracted by squirrels and birds so if he’s not leashed up…I don’t understand.  Why wasn’t she watching him, Enjolras?”

Tears were streaming of their own accord now.  The 24 year-old looked up at Enjolras helplessly, needing a response, needing some sort of answer that would make all of his pain and confusion go away.  And Enjolras wanted to do just that.  He wanted to say something that could make Grantaire believe that everything was going to be all right.  But what could he say?  Sympathy and sentiment were never really his forte.

“I’m not sure, Grantaire,” he finally replied, making the bold decision to reach up and swipe the pad of his thumb across the brunette’s tear-stained cheek, “but it will not give you peace of mind to dwell on the hows and whys.  Sometimes, things happen and we have a hard time accepting it as truth.  As time goes on, it’ll hurt less.”

Grantaire nodded slowly as he stared into the blonde’s eyes, surprisingly numb to the feeling of the mans’ hands caressing his face.  A fresh wave of tears ignited as his lip turned down.  “I just want him back.”

Enjolras no longer wished to remain idle and impassive while watching Grantaire’s heart shatter into a million pieces.  On impulse, he pulled the broken man close to him; closer and closer until Grantaire’s arms instinctively wrapped around Enjolras’ narrow waist and then they found themselves in a tender, all-consuming embrace.

It felt _so_ right.  It felt as if this was where he belonged.  It wasn’t long before Enjolras was rubbing soothing circles on Grantaire’s back and whispering words of comfort like “I know” and “I’m here” in delicate, hushed tones against the man’s ear.  Enjolras was never good at consoling others—not even the likes of his dearest, oldest friend, Combeferre—but this…

Enjolras sighed as he leaned his head against Grantaire’s.  Perhaps forming an emotional attachment to someone wouldn’t be so bad after all.  Quite the opposite, actually.

They remained in this fashion for some time, Enjolras unaffected by how soiled the front of his t-shirt was from the combination of Grantaire’s tears and snot.  Eventually, the 24 year-old student was all cried out and fatigue hit him like a ton of bricks.  He fell asleep against Enjolras’ shoulder and, well, at this point, it would just be rude to wake him and send him off to his own room.  Grantaire needed rest and he needed comfort, not isolation.

So, the blonde did what he ought to have done; he guided Grantaire down until his head was cushioned against one of Enjolras’ pillows—he had four of them leaning against the headrest of his full-sized bed (two were of the orthopedic variety) but now wasn’t the time to judge him for being a pillow snob. 

Sleep really was a miraculous thing because, from this angle, Grantaire looked peaceful.  It was reassuring for Enjolras to know that there was something that could wash away the man’s darkest thoughts, even it was temporary.

Enjolras soundlessly slipped into some pajamas—he definitely needed a clean shirt—and turned off the lights before carefully crawling into bed next to Grantaire.  It was a tight fit; full-sized beds weren’t really made for two people unless they were…you know.  Enjolras tried not to think about that.  He also tried _not_ to gaze at Grantaire’s sleeping form in wonder for minutes on end.

As the night progressed, things ‘happened’, though Enjolras was fully prepared to deny ALL of them.  For example, he did _not_ let Grantaire snuggle against his side, arm draped lazily across his chest.  He did _not_ throw one of his legs on top of Grantaire’s jean-clad thigh so that their bodies molded together properly.  And let the record state that he _certainly did not_ run his lithe fingers through Grantaire’s dark, unkempt hair just to know what it felt like—extremely soft, like clouds made of silky cotton.

Or, at least, it might have felt that way if Enjolras had done any of those things—which he _obviously_ did not.

Enjolras released a long, exhaustive breath as he finally let sleep wash over him, wondering how long it would take for him to feel the repercussions of his actions.

 

\---------

 

It was the steady pounding in his head that woke Grantaire up, followed by the bright morning sun peeking in the window, seeping right through his eyelids and trying to blind him.  Headaches he could handle, having experienced his fair share of them as a consequence of excessive drinking…except, he didn’t remember drinking that much last night.  Perhaps the fact that Grantaire couldn’t remember was sign enough that he went a little overboard.

God, that sun was awfully bright.  Usually he had the good sense to close the curtains before passing out so that he wouldn’t have to deal with mornings like this…except, he never had a morning like this, because the window in his room was behind his bed, not in front of it.

Something was off.

Unwilling to open his eyes just yet, Grantaire massaged his temples and did his best to recall what exactly happened yesterday.

It started with the phone call.  He didn’t want to dwell on that long—the memories were still too fresh and stung like a swarm of angry bees.  After receiving his mother’s call, he fully intended to lock himself in his room and curl up into a ball for the next few days, until…

Enjolras.  He ran into Enjolras and his entire evening changed course.  There was crying and touching and hugging—or wait, was this all in Grantaire’s head?  Surely, Enjolras would never…

Grantaire slowly opened his eyes and took in his surroundings.  Yep.  He was definitely in Enjolras’ room.  He fell asleep in Enjolras’ room.  More importantly, Enjolras LET him sleep in his room.  The utter confusion Grantaire was thrown in was making his headache worse as he attempted to force himself into a sitting position.

That’s when the door unlocked and Enjolras stepped in, a carrier tray with two coffee cups in hand.  “Hey, you’re awake,” he said brightly—or, at least, what was bright for Enjolras.  He wasn’t normally a cheery person, so this behavior seemed a bit off-kilter.  Grantaire was still in shock and remained silent as he stretched and wiped at his bleary eyes.

“I wasn’t sure how long you’d be out for,” Enjolras continued, “so I went downstairs to get you some tea because I figured you’d want something calming to wake up to instead of having to deal with the wired effects of coffee.  However, the dorm cafeteria only carries this generic black tea and Taro Tea Corner was just down the street so I thought I’d pick you up something a bit more on the herbal side.”

“Oh, um, thanks,” Grantaire said as Enjolras detached one of the cups from the tray and handed it to him with a smile.  This was starting to get really freaky.  First, he lets Grantaire sleep in his bed (potentially with him…holy shit) and now he’s going out of his way to get Grantaire some special tea.  In what universe did he just step into?

Enjolras removed the lid from his cup and began blowing into it as he sat in his desk chair, facing Grantaire.  “It’s valerian tea, by the way.  Quite strong, actually, I hope you weren’t planning on going to class today because you’ll be too zonked out to concentrate.  I wasn’t sure if you drink tea straight or if you need some sort of sweetener.  Here, I picked up two of everything on the counter.”  Enjolras shoved his hand in his pocket, searching for the sugar packets and Splenda that he stashed there.

“Stop,” Grantaire shouted hastily, making Enjolras freeze where he sat, the ends of white and yellow packets sticking out of his closed palm.  “I can’t do this.”

Enjolras dropped his arm, a small frown on his face.  “Do what?”

“This.  This domestic charade you’re playing at.  It’s cruel.”

The blonde openly gaped at the man before him.  “It’s not a…Grantaire, I’m not playing at anything.  I was just trying to help.”

The disheveled brunette stood, scanning the surrounding area for his coat.  “Yeah, well you’re not.  Christ, Enjolras, my fucking dog just died!  Nothing is gonna change that fact, alright?  I don’t need charity and I sure as hell don’t need you pretending to care about me!  It only makes it worse.”  He found his coat and promptly made his way toward the door.

“I’m not preten—Grantaire!”  The 24 year-old halted in the arch of the doorway.  Believing he had Grantaire’s attention, Enjolras continued.  “To make things clear, if I was to sacrifice the security of my job by letting a resident sleep in my bed, it wouldn’t be for some artificial cause.  Last night…that was the real me.”

Grantaire didn’t know what was real anymore.  Maybe he was still dreaming, and once he finally woke up he’d discover that Bowser was still alive.  Or, maybe not.

“I gotta go,” Grantaire announced morosely before disappearing down the hall.

 

\---------

 

“This is crazy.”

“Will you relax?” Courfeyrac begged, turning to a frantic Bossuet.  “I’ve got this under control.  Cosette should be coming down to our floor any minute now.”

The bald-headed man shifted his feet and looked around anxiously.  “You better hope you’re right.  Chetta’s class gets out soon and if she catches me hanging out with you, I’m in a world of trouble.”

Courfeyrac cast his eyes skyward.  “We’re not ‘hanging out’.  We’re doing recon.”  A slow grin formed on his charismatic face.  “Besides, if my plan works out the way I hope, you’ll all be singing my praises soon enough.”

“Hey, I’m all for this plan working.  Joly and I hate having to exclude you from things.  It doesn’t feel right.”

They heard the familiar ding of the elevator and sprang into action.  “Shh!  Get down!” Courfeyrac whispered dramatically before both men ducked behind the four-foot garbage can.  He peered his head out to the side just the make sure that Cosette was the one coming off the elevator.

It was her.  She looked radiant, as usually.  The more time they spent with her, the more envious every woman (and Jehan) on floor 5A grew because of her hair—how it became golden in the sunlight yet looked silver against the pale moon.  Courfeyrac still secretly wanted Cosette to be a Disney princess in disguise.

The blonde-haired woman made a b-line for the student lounge, just as Courfeyrac’s text instructed her to do.

“You gave him the poem, right?” Courfeyrac asked quietly, already knowing the answer but feeling the need to triple-check every step of his plan.

Bossuet nodded.  “Marius should be rewriting it as we speak.”

Inside the expansive lounge—the wall-to-wall windows providing the perfect light to study from just before the sun began to set—Marius was assiduously scribbling away, blue ink smeared on his nimble fingers, though his thoughts often strayed to a certain yellow-haired beauty.

The door creaked open behind him and he wouldn’t have bothered to look were it not for the “oh, sorry” that followed. 

He knew that voice.  Nothing could stop him from recognizing that hauntingly pleasing voice.  “Cosette?” he asked from where he sat at the large table in the center of the room.

“Yeah,” she said, and he could tell by the way she said it that she was smiling. 

He turned then and felt his heart sigh.  Every time he saw her felt like the first time and it amazed him that she could still appear even more beautiful with each undiscovered glance.  “Were you looking for R?”  It was only natural for Marius to assume that she wasn’t here to see him.

She shook her head.  “Actually, Courf.”  See, he knew better.  “He told me to meet him here because he needed help outlining his art history paper, but I’m starting to think he’s not going to show because, well…”

“Well, what?” Marius prompted.

Cosette tucked her chin into her neck to hide the rising blush.  “Nothing.  It’s circumstantial anyway.  So, what’s this?  Homework?”  She hovered just above where Marius sat and pretended to be interested in what he was working on to distract them both from their previous topic. 

“Hmm?” the freckle-faced boy mumbled, trying to refocus on the work in front of him.  “Oh, no, this isn’t for me.  It’s for Bossuet’s Brit Lit course.  Apparently his professor detests modern technology and is a stickler for neat penmanship so he asked me to rewrite this blank verse poem that he says is due tomorrow.  Nothing Bossuet writes is ever legible and I’d hate to see him get a low grade because of that.  It’s all a bit odd if you ask me, but perhaps the fact this woman is an expert in the classics speaks for itself.”

Cosette, however, had stopped listening to his long-winded explanation halfway through, instead inexorably transfixed by the words on the page.  She noted the delicate loops in his j’s and the way his d’s never completely came full circle…it all looked so strangely familiar.  Even some of the words he wrote caused a stirring of déjà vu within her.

And then it came to her like an electrifying jolt.

“It was you,” she whispered amazedly.  “All along, it was you.”

Marius turned around and eyed Cosette curiously, taking in the tranquil yet bewildered expression on her face.  “What are you talking about?”

Without thinking, she snatched the paper from his hands and let her eyes rake over the words.  “I’ve seen your handwriting before.  This can’t just be a coincidence.”  Cosette then reached into her purse and pulled out a folded, slightly worn piece of paper.  “I must’ve read this 100 times already.  Even the ink blots are in the same places.  It has to be you.”

Marius leapt from his chair the moment he realized what she was holding, heart racing wildly. “You don’t mean,” he exclaimed, trailing off and gesturing between the unfolded letter and himself.  “Do you think that I…that I would…that I am…”

Cosette suddenly grew self-conscious, thinking she’d made a hasty mistake.  Perhaps, Marius wasn’t the only person in the world with this particular writing style.  Perhaps, she was getting ahead of herself and imagined a connection that was not really there.  But all the criteria fit, so it wasn’t completely out of the realm of possibility that he could have feelings for her, right?  At least, she hoped he could.

“Sorry,” the blonde woman said after placing the neatly written copy of Bossuet’s poem back on the table.  “It wasn’t right for me to accuse you of—well, not to say that I’m accusing anyone of anything really.  Oh, dear.  What I’m trying, rather unsuccessfully, to say is that, well, if by chance you did write that letter…that would imply that you might have feelings for me and, well, that would be okay.  More than okay, actually.  Again, not to say you did write it.  Am I rambling?  I feel like I’m—”

“The first time I saw you,” Marius began boldly, causing Cosette to gape wordlessly, “was the day I truly began to live.  My heart knew what my mind couldn’t understand, but now they are one and they both remind me every day how exceptionally lovely you are.  You, Cosette, are like summer rain amidst a never-ending drought.  You complete a part of me I never knew was missing, but am now lost without.  I wish there was an easier way for me to express the way you make me feel, but emotions as strong as love were probably never meant to be expressed.  Only felt, and felt deeply.”

Cosette was a bit lightheaded and most definitely in a trance as she gazed at the adorable brunette in front of her.  Sweet Marius, the man who opened doors for ladies young and old and often let people cut in front of him at the checkout line, was now to be her Marius.  If Cosette were to die of happiness, this would probably be that moment.  No wonder Courfeyrac was acting so strangely when she told him of her feelings—he had known all along, had even orchestrated this little encounter for all she knew.  She would have to thank him later.

“Then it’s true” were the only words she could say at present, and what a glorious truth it was.  The truth had come out of Marius’ own lips—lips that she desperately wanted to kiss, but such an impulsive action might cause his current apprehension to skyrocket so she should probably take things slowly.

Marius bowed his head, unable to face Cosette after his unexpected admission.  He had planned out at least a hundred ways in which he would confess his love to her, but this was not one of them.  Where was he supposed to go from here?  Should he wait for her to say something?  No, he didn’t want her to say anything just yet.  There was still so much he hoped to express that the letter did not explicitly clarify.  “You might not remember this, but we first met in the elevator as I was coming back from my World History class.  You were so beautiful, but I didn’t have the courage to speak to you then.  And then, at the Halloween party, I just fell in love with everything that you were.  You are smart, kind, funny, and, most importantly, loyal.  Your loyalty to Grantaire and the way you put his needs above yours was something I honestly admired.  I would wait for you, Cosette, and only you—as long as it takes.”

“Marius,” she finally said, after her brain had time to process his profoundly beautiful words, “we’ve been friends for almost three months now.  Why have you never said anything sooner?  Or even flirted with me on occasion?  Don’t get me wrong, I love the friendship that we have, but you never, not once, gave me the impression that you were interested in me.  In fact, there were times when you wouldn’t speak to me at all and it made me think that I somehow repulsed you.”

“No, Cosette,” Marius responded quickly, bolder still as he took a step forward and locked eyes with the woman he loved.  “That could never happen.  The truth is that I’m not used to girls like you.  I’m constantly afraid that I’ll say the wrong thing or do something foolish when I’m around you.  That letter, though embellished with Jehan’s expertise and poetic words, is how I really feel.  I thought that I was perfectly content with just watching you smile and laugh, but now I realize that I want to be the guy that makes you smile and makes you la—”

Cosette’s impulses got the best of her as she leapt forward, wrapping both arms around Marius’ neck and pressing her lips to his own.  They were warm lips; lips that sent an electric sensation through her body that shot all the way down to her toes.  She wanted to wrap herself up in this moment, savoring the glow for as long as she could. 

Marius was in shock and wasn’t quite sure how to respond.  The most exquisite woman he had ever met was kissing him with a certain desperation he never thought possible.  Was he somehow transported into a dream?  No dream had ever made him feel this good.  None of his previous dreams of the gorgeous blonde allowed him to feel the tingling softness of her lips. This was real—and most definitely a reality he wanted to hold onto forever, which was why it was only fair to do things ‘properly’.

Marius reluctantly pulled back and almost instantly a frown appeared on Cosette’s face at the loss of contact.  “What’s wrong?  What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing,” he replied quickly, cupping her face with his open palm.  She melted into it.  “You’ve done absolutely nothing wrong.  I just remembered that it was customary to take a lady out on a date before kissing her, not the other way around.”

“Customs are not rules, Marius, and they change just as the world does.”  She clung to the arm that began tenderly caressing her cheek.  “But, if you wish to take me out to dinner, I will not object.”

“Wonderful,” he said, unable to hide the blissful grin on his face.  “Then it’s a date.”

She smiled back, slowly leaning forward until their faces were inches apart.  “Now that we’ve got that settled, can we do that whole kissing thing again?”

“As you wish.”

After peering into the lounge and seeing that Cosette and Marius were a bit ‘tied up’ at present, Bossuet and Courfeyrac gave them the privacy they deserved, walking back to the suite and high-fiving several times along the way.


	17. When Fading to Gray, Color Me More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy creme brulee, this took a ridiculously long time! Feel free to hate me for keeping you all waiting...or maybe you weren't because you all have lives and my fic is, after all, just a fic, but I like to pretend you're sitting on the edge of your seat and constantly checking for updates because that makes me happy. ; )
> 
> anywho, this chapter...THIS CHAPTER. Let's just say there's a reason it took so long (other than the fact that October's a very busy month for me). I really hope you guys like this one because this is where everything/two specific people come together, and I don't use those words lightly. If you noticed, I changed the rating to M only because I wasn't sure what boundaries I was testing with this chapter.
> 
> Please, please, PLEASE let me know what you think about this one! I'll be the one sitting on the edge of my seat after I post this. okay, bye.

As Courfeyrac stepped off the elevator onto floor 5A, he was immediately faced with…silence.  It was eerily quiet, like that kind of quiet you’d confront if you were the last person in existence because of some type of judgment day scenario.  There weren’t hordes of people gathered outside in the quad so it most likely wasn’t a fire drill.  Something was definitely up though.  After all, it was Friday night!  No group of college students is this quiet on a Friday night.

He stopped by his RA’s room to make further inquiries on the matter.  He knocked once, then twice, then started to freak out a little bit because why wasn’t he answering?  Enjolras didn’t have class or a debate team meeting at present—Courfeyrac may have memorized his schedule for future pranking prospects—and everyone knew he didn’t have a life outside of school so where else would he be?

“Hey, Goldilocks, you there?” he called loudly.  There was no reply.  “Okay, if you’re not there then that means I can totally get away with replacing your presidential candidate photos with the cast of Twilight…”  Enjolras never tolerated Courfeyrac’s shenanigans when it came to his bulletin boards, so it was only a matter of time before he came out of hiding.

Except he didn’t, and the floor was as quiet as it was five minutes ago, save for his own booming voice.

He was going to get to the bottom of this, deciding to make a pit stop at his room first to trade his backpack for his car keys—knocking on everyone else’s door along the way for good measure.

When he opened the unlocked door to his suite—which was usual—and found all the lights turned off—which was altogether unusual—that should have been the primary indicator of what was to come.  But Courfeyrac remained perfectly and utterly clueless until he flipped on the light switch and about a dozen of his favorite people popped out from behind the couches in the living room.

“Surprise!” they all cried in unison, Eponine and Joly rushing forward to throw silver confetti at him and strap a cone-shaped party hat onto his head.

Courfeyrac blushed like the adorable goofball he was.  “Aw shucks, guys.  And here I was thinking you’d all forgotten my birthday.”

“How could we?” Eponine replied dryly yet affectionately.  “You see, ‘someone’ managed to set a birthday reminder in everybody’s phone for February 9th.  I wonder who that was.  Poor Bossuet was so freaked out by the alarm that went off at midnight that he accidentally knocked his phone off his bedside table and cracked the screen.”

The bald man’s shoulders slumped.  “Yeah, thanks, mate.”

Courfeyrac chose to plead the fifth on whether he set those alarms and instead scanned the room for that petite redhead he was so ridiculously fond of, flashing a wry smile in his direction.  “I suppose this is your doing.”

Jehan looked fondly at his boyfriend with bright lavender eyes, inching forward until he was close enough to plant a chaste kiss on his cheek.  “As much as I would love to take the credit for this soiree, you should know that this was entirely Marius’ idea.”

Courfeyrac’s chest constricted as he looked up and locked eyes with his roommate.  _Marius planned this.  Marius chose to do something special for_ him _.  Marius cared._

“You did this for me?” Courfeyrac asked sincerely.

Marius shrugged bashfully.  “Well…yeah.  I mean, what are friends for?”

The birthday boy’s eyes shone bright, and it wasn’t entirely due to the little specs of glossy confetti that stuck to his cheekbones.  “We’re friends again?”

“Yeah,” Marius replied honestly, “we’re friends.”

“Best friends?”

The expression on Marius’ face went from content to exasperated in 0.3 seconds, and it really spoke volumes about their relationship.  “You’re pushing it, Courf.”

Courfeyrac grinned like the Cheshire cat he was often compared to.  “You can deny it all you want, Mare Bear, but something tells me our friendship status has escalated to BFFIAB: Best Friends for Infinity and Beyond.  Ooh!  I should pick up a couple of those charm bracelets that spell out ‘best friends’ when you put ‘em together.  But we’ll worry about jewelry and matching outfits later, for now let’s just hug it out.”  He stretched his arms out wide, ready to envelope his scrawny friend. 

“I’m not hugging you, Courf,” Marius said as he started to back away like a cornered, defenseless animal.  “Feuilly, start the music so we can put an end to this embarrassing conversation, and Jehan, do whatever’s necessary to keep _him_ away from me.”

Feuilly did as instructed and it wasn’t long before groups were chit-chatting about anything but classes, Bahorel was pouring copious amounts of champagne, and Musichetta was twerking like a pro.

Courfeyrac thanked his party guests personally—which included the successful evasion of his boyfriend so he could sneak up behind Marius to finally give him that well-deserved hug—and ended his rounds with their illustrious leader, Enjolras.

“Enj, man, I gotta tell you that I’m pretty touched you came to my party.  I mean, if I wasn’t so in love with the sound of my own voice, I might actually be speechless right about now.”

Though it was completely in his character to be terse and give no consideration to the consequences of his words, Enjolras thought it was best not to tell Courfeyrac that the reason he came here tonight was because he hoped to happen upon the man’s roommate.  Grantaire hadn’t spoken to him in three days, since he rejected Enjolras’ offer of tea and polite conversation.  What was that all about, anyway?  Granted, Enjolras may not be an expert at consoling others, but he was trying wasn’t he?  Didn’t that count for something?  This hot and cold game they were playing grew very tiresome, but that didn’t mean Enjolras was ready to throw in the towel just yet.

“Would you believe me if I said I had nothing better to do?” the blonde asked hesitantly.

Courfeyrac shook his head.  “I don’t think you could do ‘nothing’ even if you tried.  Whether it’s for school or ‘the greater good’, you’ve always got something important on the agenda.  Speaking of important, pretty shocking that President Javert’s not running for a second term, huh?  Who saw that coming?  Of course, this begs the question of who will announce their candidacy now that Javert’s out of the picture.”

“You really want to talk politics on your birthday?” Enjolras inquired with a quizzical brow.

“Well, let’s just say that my interest in these matters has skyrocketed since we started having our weekly meetings.  I’ll admit that your passions are not displaced and, hell, I’m even beginning to see the changes that need to be made for our country to thrive.  Although, to be honest, I’m with R on the whole ‘actions speak louder than words’ front.  A group like ours shouldn’t have to stay passive forever.”

Enjolras begged to differ.  There were a number of things he could say to this—having argued the point to death with Grantaire on several occasions—but instead he chose to use this opportunity to segue the conversation toward a question he had been aching to ask.  “Speaking of Grantaire, I’m surprised he’s not here celebrating with you tonight.”

It was then that Marius appeared, offering champagne and staying at least an arm’s length away from Courf.  Enjolras amazed even himself when he took the proffered red solo cup and swallowed its contents with ease.

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac said, eyeing his RA curiously, “I was kind of wondering that myself.  Cosette’s not here either.  Hey, where’s your girlfriend at tonight, Marius?”

The blush that formed on Marius’ cheeks at the mention of the word ‘girlfriend’ was unmistakable.  “As much as Cosette wanted to be here, she’s still consoling Grantaire, I’m afraid.  Not that I’m saying three days is enough time to recover from the loss of a pet.  Man, I can’t imagine what he’s going through.  You heard about this, right Enjolras?”

The blond nodded solemnly.  He knew before anyone else did.  The memory of that night sent a strangely warm feeling straight to his chest, while the morning after left him with a cold emptiness.  For some unexplainable reason, he needed a certain dark-haired cynic to fill that void again.  He needed their lives (and limbs) to intertwine because a growing part of him knew that was where they belonged.  He just needed Grantaire, plain and simple.

“Poor R,” Courfeyrac said, shaking his head absently.  “I would lose my shit if Colonel Mustard died before I could say goodbye.”  Yes, Courfeyrac named his cat after a board game character.

The mood set by this conversation was making Enjolras claustrophobic and he suddenly realized that talking about Grantaire wasn’t helping him deal with the man’s notable absence.  “Well, as stimulating as this has all been, I’ve got to write a response essay proving that the Great Famine of 1921 was a direct result of the Bolshevik Revolution.  Happy birthday, Courfeyrac.”

The birthday boy nodded knowingly before turning to shout at Bossuet.  “Hey, Boss-Man, pay up!  It’s only been 10 minutes and already Enjy’s making his exit.  What did I tell ya?”

“Ah, damnit!” the bald man exclaimed before reluctantly reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.

Joly grabbed his boyfriend’s drink so he wouldn’t spill it in his attempts to pull out a $20 bill.  “Babe, you gotta stop making these bets unless you’re confident you’ll win.”

“But I was confident,” he half-whined.

“Well, then you clearly don’t know Enjolras.”

Accepting that it was fruitless to object to their mockery, Enjolras started to make his way toward the door when Marius stopped him.  “Hey, listen, about that whole ‘girlfriend’ thing Courf mentioned earlier, uh, it was just him joking around because obviously everyone knows that I have a ridiculous crush on Cosette, but she would certainly not want to jeopardize her job, which is why we’re totally just friends so don’t listen to anything he—”

“Marius, I’m not going to rat you guys out if that’s what you’re getting at.”

The freckle-faced boy stopped mid-rant and exhaled slowly.  “Oh.  But I thought you said last semester that dating residents was against policy and that you would never condone such an action if you were to find out about it?”

“I know I _said_ that,” Enjolras replied, his mind elsewhere, “but people change.  My opinion on this matter has changed.”

“Cool,” Marius said, though he was still a bit on the cautious side.  “So, you’re definitely okay with me and Cosette being…”  He let Enjolras fill in the rest.

“Yes, you have my full support, but you really should be careful.  I’m not the only one with the power to expose her secret.  With that being said, as long as you’re happy—”

“I am,” the boy responded a little too eagerly.  He sighed dreamily.  “Gosh, Enjolras.  I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy before.  It’s like seeing your hopes and dreams come to life—only, the reality turned out even better than the dream.”

For once, Enjolras wasn’t annoyed by his resident’s lovesick professions.  On the contrary, he was quite envious.  A part of him wanted to feel that way, wanted his dream of a man with dark, messy curls snuggling close to be a reality.

“I’m happy that you’re happy,” Enjolras than said, though the faraway look on his face could have been interpreted otherwise.  “I really must go now, Marius.  Enjoy the rest of the party—except, make sure nobody gets too drunk.  I don’t want to have to come back here and write you guys up.”

Marius held back a laugh, wondering how exhausting it must be to be Enjolras, before respectfully nodding.  A moment later, Enjolras was out the door and Marius was pulling out his phone to see if Cosette had texted him yet.  She did.

Meanwhile, in another part of the room—yet still within earshot of the previous conversation—Eponine held the lid of her cup poised against her lips but did not move to drink from it as she stared at the young man who was smiling sweetly at his phone.

Gavroche nudged her side, breaking her reverie.  She looked down at her brother.  The expression he wore was of sympathy, and that was something she did not have the tolerance for right now.  “Chin up, ‘Ponine.  I know this isn’t how you envisioned things would turn out, but you’ll recover from this.  You always do.”

“Is this the part where you tell me that there are other fish in the sea?  Because, after meeting Marius, any other prospect is probably gonna pale in comparison.  It’s just a bunch of puffer fish and piranhas out there now.”  She took a giant gulp of her champagne.  “But you know what?  It’s okay, because I’ve actually thought about this a lot and I’ve decided that I don’t need a man to make my life feel complete.  I’m working towards a business degree, which I’ll probably change because accounting seems awfully boring, but at least I’m testing the waters.  I’ve also got a great group of friends and a brother who’ll hopefully take care of me when he becomes a self-proclaimed millionaire at the age of 20.  I don’t need anything else to make me happy.”

“That’s very poetic.  You should consider writing a book about this path to self-discovery you’re on.  Publishing companies eat up narratives with personal struggles like poverty and abandonment—and what a coincidence, we got both!”

Eponine ruffled her brother’s hair with every intention to piss him off.  “Nice try, Gav, but we’re not selling the rights to our life story.”  A moment later, she left Gavroche in search of a much needed distraction.  Hopefully she could rally a game of beer pong out of Bahorel. 

 

\-------

 

The next day, Enjolras took charge of the situation.  It was a stroke of genius actually and he was quite proud of himself—considering he had put more effort into this than that Bolshevik paper due at week’s end.

It was dark outside—the sun had vanished and the moon now cast a silvery glow against Enjolras’ dorm room window.  He had left his door ajar all afternoon in hopes of encountering Grantaire, but received no such luck.  Either his forlorn resident remained holed up in his bedroom the entire day or he was never there to begin with.  Enjolras didn’t know which of these two options troubled him the most.

Hearing that familiar elevator _ding_ , Enjolras jerked his head out of the doorway to see if his luck had finally changed.  He had never been more disappointed to see Musichetta.

“Hey, Enj,” she greeted with a curious smirk upon seeing his familiar mop of blonde hair.  “Whatcha doing?”

He came out of his room so he no longer looked like a creepy lurker.  “Uh, nothing.  I was seeing if…I mean, I was just making sure you were a resident.  Can’t have any strangers roaming about a college campus.”

“Right,” Musichetta said as if she was in on some secret that Enjolras was not privy to.

“So, how’s everything going?” her RA asked with forced courtesy.  “You know, with school and whatnot.”

Musichetta smiled and shook her head.  “You don’t have to engage in polite chit-chat for my sake, Enjolras.  I’ve got to write the report for my chem lab anyway, so I’ll let you get back to scoping the halls for that brooding, dark-haired suitemate that has you so smitten.”

Enjolras’ eyes shifted around nervously.  “I’m not quite sure what you’re implying, but I can assure you that—”

“It’s okay.  I mean, there’s really no point in denying it because I’ve known for quite a while now.  I’m surprised no one else is attuned to the blatant flirting that goes on between the two of you—well, I suspect Cosette and Gav also know—but I assume you want this to remain a secret for obvious reasons which is why I haven’t even told Joly and Bossuet.  If you still insist on my discretion, there is like zero cause for alarm because you have it.”

This was not the response Enjolras expected.  Her overall regard for his feelings was oddly comforting, but at the same time he felt somewhat pressured into admitting those feelings out loud; feelings that were still unclear even to him.  So, he remained silent, casually glancing at the emergency exit upon hearing footsteps on the stairs.

“And,” Musichetta continued when his reticent behavior was answer enough, “though you’d probably never ask for my advice, I’m gonna give it to you anyway as I am quite fluent in the language of love.”  Enjolras rolled his eyes at the young engineering student.  “Just call him already.  You clearly have something to say to him and quite frankly it’s better to make the first move than to just wait around for him to do so.  For all you know, he could be just as hesitantly anxious as you are.”

Enjolras, however, was not persuaded by her words.  Instead, he expressed his irritation toward her imposing suggestion.  “If I’m not mistaken, Musichetta, you’re majoring in aerospace engineering, correct?  If this is indeed the case, then allow me to strongly recommend that you stick to space technology and leave psychoanalysis to the experts.”

The olive-skinned woman bit her lip and squinted as if she was trying to decode a locked box.  “You need to get laid, Enjolras.  For everyone’s sake, I hope R does the job well because that pole up your ass is not doing you any favors.”  She didn’t give the man a chance to retort, instead turning around and heading in the direction of Joly and Bossuet’s room.

Enjolras went back into his own room and started to pace.  Pacing often soothed his nerves, nerves that were currently pulsing madly underneath his skin.  _It wasn’t necessary to call Grantaire_ , he tried to convince himself, because there was no real urgency and the man was bound to show up eventually.

But the fact that there was no immediate need to see him didn’t quell Enjolras’ desire to have the man near.

Grantaire picked up after the second ring.  “Enjolras?”

“Hey,” he said shakily.  Why the hell was he shaking?  _Dear God, learn some self-control, Enjolras._ “Where are you?”  As tact really wasn’t his thing, he decided that there was no point dancing around the subject.

“I’m, uh, at The Junction with Cosette and Marius.”  The Junction was a dinner down the street that was usually overrun with drunk and/or hung over college students.

Enjolras nodded, then realized that Grantaire had no way of seeing his response and mentally smacked himself.  “Oh.  Sounds fun…so, are you almost done there?”

There was a heavy sigh on the other line.  “What do you want, Enjolras?”

“Um…well, the thing is, I have something to show you.  The idea just kind of came to me and…”  This really shouldn’t have been that difficult to say, and yet, Enjolras’ palms were sweaty and his heart was racing like a jack hammer.  “Look, can you just come over when you get a chance?  It’s kind of important.”

The pause that resounded was so long that Enjolras had to check his phone to make sure Grantaire didn’t accidentally (or purposefully) hang up on him.

“We’re paying now,” the dejected 24 year-old finally answered.  “I’ll stop by in a little bit.”

The blonde nodded, again, and before he completely lost his temper with himself, he ended the call with a curt “okay, bye” before hanging up and throwing his phone on the bed.

It took 18 minutes for Grantaire to arrive, and it was potentially the most grueling 18 minutes of Enjolras’ short life.

“Hey,” Grantaire said the moment he appeared at his RA’s open door.  His eyes were bloodshot, his hair was a tangled mess, and the army green shirt he wore was extremely wrinkled, which gave Enjolras the impression that the grieving period was, in fact, still ongoing.

“Hey,” was all the blonde could think to say in return.

Grantaire fidgeted under Enjolras’ direct gaze, running a nervous hand through his thick, brown hair.  “You, uh, said you had something to show me?”

“Yes, I do!”  Enjolras was suddenly glad to have a purpose—anything to stop him from staring and fantasizing and wanting to make good on those fantasies.  “Right.  Shut the door.  I don’t want anyone else to see this just yet.  Okay, so, I’ve been thinking a lot about the other night you were over and—”

“Enjolras,” he interrupted, pain dripping from his voice as he rubbed calloused hands over a tired face, “I really don’t want to talk about that just yet.”

The fair-haired Adonis gave him a look of understanding.  “Trust me, I have no intention to.  As we are both well aware, my area of expertise involves seeking out pragmatic solutions not outlets for therapeutic venting.  So, here’s the situation: I was searching through the RA Handbook—and let me just stop you before you even attempt to make fun of that fact, Grantaire, because I have a legitimate reason for doing so—and I came across the list of approved dorm pets in section 2-C, which is on page 36 if you need a reference.  Apparently chinchillas are an approved pet, did you know that?  Anyway, lizards are also on the list—which seemed like a relatively harmless pet and quite compact depending on the breed—so I went down to the pet shop this morning and picked up this.”

It was only then that Grantaire noticed the rectangular box sitting on Enjolras’ desk.  Piecing the information together, he let out a strangled noise in the back of his throat.  “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“It’s called a leopard gecko,” the blonde replied, ignoring Grantaire’s misgivings as he removed the lid and urged the man to take a closer look.  He wasn’t joking.  There really was a black-spotted lizard in the box.  Oddly enough, it looked nothing like the GEICO mascot, which disillusioned Grantaire quite a bit.  “He probably needs a more permanent home than a shoebox, and you’ll have to get more food for him soon, oh and I think there’s a form Marius and Courfeyrac have to sign as part of the roommate agreement, but he’s got personality (for a lizard) and I thought you’d appreciate that.”

“Wait,” Grantaire stuttered out, feeling the panic rise in his chest, “this…this is for me?  You bought him for me?”

Enjolras self-consciously smoothed out the front of his red v-neck.  “Listen, I know a lizard could _never_ replace Bowser, nor could any other animal for that matter.  I mean, your face lit up any time you mentioned him, and perhaps nothing will ever be able to completely fill that hole he left behind, but, I don’t know, a new pet might be enough of a distraction to help you move on.  I will admit that when I researched the stages of grief it did mention something about ‘acceptance’ not ‘avoidance’ so maybe I got this all wrong, but I wasn’t sure what I could do to help you _accept_ this tragedy.  Am I overstepping my bounds here?  I am, aren’t I?  You probably think I’m being intrusive and presumptuous, and you’re absolutely right because I don’t have a clue about what—”

Enjolras’ impromptu speech was cut off by a mouth pressed firmly against his.  He felt lips that were chapped from exposure to the harsh winter air, but that didn’t stop the blonde from enjoying the tantalizing effects of Grantaire’s needy mouth.  As he started to give in, his own lips parting ever so slightly, he began to feel a bit dizzy and oh my god, why did he ever push Grantaire away when they could’ve been doing this?  He could now chalk up every previous encounter with the cynic as a means to lead them to this very moment, because he wanted this and he wanted it badly.

Grantaire abruptly pulled back and Enjolras had to use every ounce of self-control to stop himself from whimpering like a wounded puppy.  Thankfully, the scruffy brunette did not remove himself completely, pressing their foreheads together and grabbing a fistful of his Apollo’s blonde locks in a futile attempt to hold onto reality.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire said, his breathing shallow and labored with anticipation.  It was kind of (no, totally) hot.  “I know you don’t want this right now and the last thing I want to do is push you away because I tried to speed things up too son, but…Christ, Enjolras!  You bought me a fucking gecko!”

Enjolras closed his eyes and melted against the other man’s overwhelming proximity.  He felt his erratic heartbeat in his throat and on a normal day that might alarm the blonde idealist, but right now his frantically beating heart was joined by electrical currents shooting out of his fingertips and that feeling only made him ache to touch any and every part of Grantaire that he could get his hands on.  “I just hated seeing you so sad.  I wanted to make you feel better.”

“That’s exactly my point!” Grantaire replied, his voice an octave higher to match the pleading look in his eyes.  “You did this because you thought it would make me happy.  God, how do you still not see that the only thing that’ll make me happy is _you_?  You mean the fucking world to me, Enjolras, and I just—I just—I need this right now, okay?  Let me indulge in this warped fantasy of mine just this once.  Please.”

Enjolras knew that if he refused, it would be like forbidding a man his dying wish—although, whose wish it was, he couldn’t say.  Perhaps, both.  This man of perfect marble felt his resolve crumbling, his stoic exterior fading so quickly that it would soon be a distant memory.  He had already accepted that he needed Grantaire in his life and now was his chance to prove it.

Fisting the front of Grantaire’s t-shirt, Enjolras pulled him forward until their lips found solace in each other once more.  It took maybe a second for Grantaire to catch up, to tighten his grasp on Enjolras’ honey-kissed hair and release the anticipatory breath he was holding in.

The kiss was earth-shattering, Grantaire eagerly taking possession of Enjolras’ lips and, well, he was more than willing to comply.

It was no secret that the 24 year-old knew what he was doing.  His lips moved with practiced determination, bruising in that good sort of way that left Enjolras aching for more.  In truth, he could kiss Grantaire like this for the rest of his life…that is, until the unshaven brunette swiped his artful tongue against the underside of Enjolras’ upper lip, at which point all bets were off.

Kissing was no longer the main objective.  The first thrust of Grantaire’s tongue was keenly accepted and immediately reciprocated.  It felt so rapturously good and Enjolras’ clouded thoughts centered on wanting _more_ , needing _more_ , craving _more_.  Their tongues were entangled in a frantic dance now, exploring every cavern of each other’s mouths. 

Grantaire reluctantly detached himself from Enjolras, drawing in much needed oxygen.  “Holy fuck, you taste amazing,” he muttered rapidly, surprised any words escaping his lips at present were remotely coherent, and Enjolras really did whimper this time.  That adorably needy whimper turned into a guttural moan the moment Grantaire’s mouth slid down to the base of his throat, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin while his wet, hot tongue soothed the flesh Grantaire marked as his own, Enjolras’ nerve endings ready to blow a fuse.

These intense feelings—feelings Enjolras was not at all accustomed to—spurred him on, making a savage beast out of an untouchable god.  Being a man of rational thought, it was a stark juxtaposition for him to impulsively palm Grantaire’s ass and force their jean clad hips to collide brazenly…but he did it anyway, no longer able or willing to subdue the fire within him.  The new sensations this caused was too much and yet not enough, hips canting until they found the friction they both desired.  Enjolras felt like an animal in heat, rutting wildly against the beautifully wrecked brunette as staccato pants filled the spaces in between their heated kisses.

Grantaire repositioned Enjolras so that he was now pinned against his desk, using the stable surface to grind against his lover with uncoordinated, frantic movements.  As Grantaire continued to lavish his attentions on the blonde’s delicate neck, Enjolras attempted to find his words again.  “More…Grantaire…need more… you.”

Requiring no further encouragement, Grantaire’s hand traveled from the nape of Enjolras’ neck all the way down to the lip of his tight black jeans, furiously working open the button and pulling down the zipper until he was free of the constricting material.  Enjolras mimicked these actions and pretty soon both of their pants were shoved down to mid-thigh, their boxer-clad erections pressed up against each other so forcefully that the heat coiling in their abdomen was almost unbearable.

Enjolras boldly took Grantaire’s lower lip between his teeth and gave a clever tug, igniting a rather obscene grunt from the man.  “God damnit.  I would give anything to be inside you right now, but I can’t stop.  I’m gonna…oh fuck, I’m gonna…”  The haggard brunette was so close and the almost pained expression on Enjolras’s face indicated that he was as well.  Sure, making passionate love in a cozy bed with low lighting sounded altogether appealing to both parties, but after six months of close proximity and unresolved sexual frustration, both men just really needed to get off.

A couple of sporadic thrusts and desperately groping hands later, Enjolras was digging his fingernails into Grantaire’s back and calling out his name.  The dark-haired man followed closely behind, biting the exposed flesh on Enjolras’ shoulder as he rode out his own orgasm.

Grantaire dropped his hands on the desk to keep himself upright while his face remained nestled in the crook of his lover’s neck, his erratic breathing slowly finding a steady pace once more.  The light scruff on his chin caressed Enjolras’ already sensitive skin, and it made it that much harder for the blonde to come back down to Earth.  It felt like sandpaper and for some ungodly reason, he loved it—suddenly imagining Grantaire’s unshaven face working it’s sensual magic on his naked body.  The fact that he was still so turned on moments after coming in his pants must’ve said something about his willpower.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire muffled softly against hot, aching flesh.

Finding his strength returning, Enjolras lifted Grantaire’s face so that they were at eye-level.  “What are you apologizing for now?”

As sated as his body felt, Grantaire’s lips curved in a downward motion.  “I feel like I just wasted my one opportunity to be with you.  You permit me to act on my feelings, and I behave like a horny teenager instead of showing you the affection that you whole-heartedly deserve.  If I could do it over again, I would worship you.  I would lay you down and memorize every inch of your body with my fingertips, caresses languid enough for me to discover where you like to be touched the most.  And my attentions would return to those delightfully delicate parts of you again and again, so much so that by the end of the night you would be begging me to release you from that sweet torture.   And I’d want to watch you come.  I’d want to look upon your beautifully unmarred face as you come undone, as you give yourself completely to the emotions you keep so carefully guarded.  It would be like seeing the real you.  But instead my dick chose for me.  I didn’t mean for it to be like this.”

Enjolras stared into Grantaire’s thoughtful blue eyes, wondering how he never before saw the sincerity in the man’s affections for him.  He then leaned forward and gave the cynic—his cynic—a tender kiss on the lips. “The night’s not over.  I think there’s still a chance for you to make good on your intentions.”

Grantaire smiled dreamily before being pushed backward toward the inviting bed.

 

 


	18. Then the World Comes Flooding Back In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so as it is nanowrimo, I'm going to be taking a short break from this to work on a novel I've put off for 4 years (yet never truly gave up on b/c I love it too much). This was only a portion of what the next chapter was going to be, but I thought I'd post it anyway so you don't have to wait too long. 
> 
> This is a pivotal scene b/c we learn a lot more about Enjolras' past. I would also like to point out that this takes place in February of 2012, for future plot purposes. A few of the facts and people that I pulled for this story arc are real, while the rest of it came from my own twisted brain.
> 
> Toodles!

Enjolras shifted in his sleep.  He felt cold, as if suddenly lacking a warmth that previously gave him comfort.  The source of that warmth came flooding back to him when something bumped against his desk and alerted his senses.  Groggily opening his eyes and using his arm to prop himself up, Enjolras blinked at the man standing before him—presently shirtless and attempting (with very little success) to get his other leg through the pant hole of his jeans.

“What in god’s name are you doing?” the blonde asked, a sluggish, tired expression on his face.

Grantaire winced, feeling the need to atone for his less than stealth-like behavior.  “Sorry.  Didn’t mean to wake you.  I was just trying to get out of your hair, you know, to avoid that whole awkward conversation in which you politely kick me out.  I may have pulled a muscle or two though because my legs are not cooperating this morning.”

Enjolras suspected Grantaire’s leg cramps had something to do with that crab-like maneuver he attempted last night—which really deserved a standing ovation—but reveling in his memories of last night wasn’t getting him any closer to figuring out why the man wished to leave so suddenly.  “Trying to get out of my hair?  Why would you say that?”

“It’s okay,” the scruffy brunette replied with a defeated half shrug after finally getting his pants on properly.  “I get that _this_ was just a one-time thing, so no need to sprout any excuses or explanations involving the handbook in order to get me to leave.  You were very…uh, helpful last night and I’m eternally grateful for your attempts to make me feel _better_ —shit, that’s not even the right word is it, because we both know how enthusiastic I was about getting to do that one thing…  Anyway, that’s not the point.  Just know that you don’t have to worry about me pressuring you into furthering whatever it is we have here.  It’s your decision, not mine, and I won’t act like a wounded puppy if this just isn’t the right time for us to be an ‘us’.  That being said, I’ll just locate my shirt, grab my brand new gecko—which I’ve decided to name McFly, you’re welcome—and then I’ll be on my merry way.”

“No.”

Grantaire paused in his pursuits, not expecting Enjolras’ authoritative outburst.  “No, I _can’t_ have the gecko?  But I thought you said it was a gift.”

The blonde sighed as he fell back against his pillow.  “No, as in your reasons for leaving are entirely inaccurate and unfounded, so you might as well take your pants back off and come back to bed.”  Enjolras’ eyes fluttered closed, ready to let sleep take him once more.

But Grantaire needed more of an explanation than that.  This was a very delicate topic, after all.  “You don’t want me to leave?”  Enjolras shook his head.  “And, uh, how long am I permitted to stay with you, exactly?”

“Do we really have to have this conversation at this very moment?” Enjolras asked with a furrowed brow, still hoping to get at least a few more hours of shut eye.

A heavy weight on his bed forced Enjolras to open his eyes—which, as wonderful as sleep sounded, made him smile softly because, well, who wouldn’t smile if a half-naked and unbelievably attractive man was hovering above them?

Grantaire placed his hand on the other side of Enjolras’ shoulder so that he was directly above him—an ideal vantage point for anyone with eyes.  Enjolras’ hair was wild, blonde tendrils splayed out in every direction against his maroon pillowcase.  His blue eyes stared back at Grantaire, warm, inviting, and containing a secret that appeared on the brink of confession.  It was the rouge tint to Enjolras’ cheeks, though, that the 24 year-old loved the most.  The heated blush juxtaposed against his marble skin so vividly, that it became a gentle reminder that Enjolras was really human after all.

And Grantaire liked that.  He’d much rather paint this face—a face bursting with emotion and weathered with life—than the statuesque and pristine one he dreamed up in his head.  For once, reality was much better than the dream.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire breathed out, desperation and a little bit of trepidation tingeing his voice, “you can’t dangle this in front of me and expect me to go to sleep without hearing this revelation said aloud.  If you really want me to stay, then you _have_ to tell me why.”

Now, Enjolras was not a fan of ultimatums and he certainly didn’t like to be told what to do, but if having Grantaire cuddled close again meant breaking his own rules a bit…well, let’s just say that last night’s performance made his decision much easier—and the thought left him sort of hard again.

“Alright,” he said at last, feeling a bit uncomfortable underneath Grantaire’s direct gaze, “I want you to stay because, well, we both know I haven’t been completely honest with myself, and maybe playing by the book just seemed the safest way for me to live—considering my sordid history with my father—”

“I’m not sure I follow your line of logic, Enjolras.”  The brunette looked fatigued and ready to give up whatever it was they had—or could have.  He shifted around on the bed until he was finally lying next to Enjolras, staring up at the ceiling and wondering why it was so difficult for the blonde to get passed this emotional barrier he constructed himself.  “You’re still not telling me how you feel.”

Enjolras bit back a mirthless laugh.  “How I feel?  Okay, the truth, Grantaire, is that I feel _extremely_ vulnerable right now.  I feel exposed—and not in the physical sense even though I’m obviously naked underneath this blanket.  You know more about my life than most, and the strangest part is that I actually wanted to tell you those things.  For some unexplained reason, I want you to know every secret detail of my life—and that scares me.  I’m not used to trusting people so uninhibitedly.”

Grantaire’s hand searched blindly across the bed until their fingers found each other, curling purposefully like two puzzle pieces slotted together, their joined wrists pulsating in time to the unsteady beat of their hearts.  “In case you didn’t already know this, you can trust me.  I wouldn’t give you up for the world.  Apart from Cosette, you’re the only good thing that’s come into my life.  I don’t want to lose this feeling.  I can’t bear to lose you.”

Enjolras closed his eyes, relishing in Grantaire’s words and committing his touch to memory—calloused fingers dancing across his skin as if they were painting some glorious landscape.  Being so intimately close to Grantaire was like grasping at a dream he had long ago relinquished.  Why _should_ he pay for his father’s mistakes?  Perhaps ‘mistakes’ wasn’t even the proper term for what his father had done.  In truth, they were relatively sound decisions made by a ruthless, egotistical man who never deserved that amount of power in the first place, and Enjolras was simply an innocent bystander thrown in the thick of it.  He had spent so much time feeling selfish for wanting Grantaire in his life, for putting him in harm’s way just by merely being associated with him.

But it was in that sober moment lying in bed with Grantaire tightly grasping his hand as if afraid he might vanish, that Enjolras realized…he _wasn’t_ risking Grantaire’s safety.  Grantaire was risking his own.  He’d been trying to tell him all along, but Enjolras was too blind to see it.  Grantaire wanted Enjolras, and all the baggage that came with him.  He didn’t shy away when he first learned about Enjolras’ father—in fact, he was quite eager to know more.  Grantaire was ready to plunge into this relationship head first.  The only question that remained was if Enjolras was ready for that as well.

Enjolras turned on his side so that he was facing the man he was so lucky to be sharing a bed with.  He reached out to run his fingers through Grantaire’s thick, dark curls and the older man leaned into his touch.  “That night at the meeting, when Combeferre brought up Petitjean’s trip to Panama, your skepticism was spot on.  His previous relations with Panama are the reason I abandoned my family and started a new life for myself.”

Grantaire stared into the blue eyes of the man he was unabashedly in love with.  He didn’t say a word, didn’t poke or prod Enjolras to continue because this was his secret, and the only person who could convince him to share it was himself.  Grantaire would wait as long as it took, and Enjolras knew that.

“I got emancipated when I was 18,” the blonde said, reluctantly beginning his tale, “because at 16, I overheard a troubling phone conversation.  My father was planning a short trip to Panama for what he said was a routine inspection of the South American nation’s transfer of exports.  On that phone call, he kept referring to _Operation Tabula Rasa_ and said something about the careful transfer of the PneumoX-43.  At the time, I didn’t know what it was, and most people _still_ don’t because it never quite passed the testing stage.  Anyway, my father was acting weird, and by then I knew that ‘routine inspections’ were not commonly made by the Secretary of State.  Something didn’t add up, so I went on a personal mission to find out the truth.  Thus marks the pivotal moment my world came crashing down around me.”

Avidly listening, Grantaire sat up, the blanket bunching around his naked waist as he watched his blonde Adonis release the inner demons that burdened his soul.  When Grantaire spoke, it was soft; not urging but guiding.  “What did you find out?”

“I contacted a friend of the family who was a general in the army, to see if he had any information on the PneumoX-43.  He had certainly heard of it, but most details were classified, beyond his rank.  All he knew was that it was a weapon, some form of biological weapon that—once the government figured out how to successfully contain the disease—could obliterate an entire city full of people within a matter of days.  Two weeks later, the date was April 12th, 2006.”

It took the brunette a moment, but his brain eventually caught up with him, eyes wide and mouth gaping like a fish.  “Are you trying to say that…no fucking way…but how could…holy shit…the Panama City Plague?  Your father had something to do with that?”

Enjolras’ gaze was distant, haunted.  Drudging up the gruesome details of these memories was a lot easier than Enjolras had hoped.  It was fresh in his mind, as if he turned on the news to discover the tragedy that befell Panama only yesterday.  “I didn’t have enough evidence to accuse him of causing an outbreak that claimed 68,000 lives, but the clues started to come together and instead of leaving well enough alone, I dug deeper.  I searched his phone records, appointment book, and all the files he kept locked in his desk drawer.  The most important piece of evidence I turned up was a name: Julio Barucosta.  Google proved to be a very useful resource, instantly outing this man as a well-to-do drug lord residing somewhere along the coast of Panama in La Chorrera. Though he was never caught by the DEA, it was presumed that a large portion of his cocaine supply was sent out on export ships destined for the U.S. disguised as banana shipments.  The guy’s filthy, stinking rich and, apart from spending most of his time distributing illegal drugs,  he was also known to hold a special grudge against Torrijos, the ‘then’ President of Panama.”

“President Torrijos was his target?  But I thought he was one of the few that survived the pneumonic plague?”

“He did,” Enjolras replied knowingly, “but some of his family did not. The plague scared him into resigning from his position two years early and he took up residence somewhere on the eastern bank of Panama, somewhere his enemies could not easily find him.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Grantaire said, a bit tongue-tied and still trying to make sense of what Enjolras was confessing.  “So, you’re telling me that you believe Secretary of State, Adrian Petitjean—the political icon who drew up a new policy agreement with Somalia to end any and all future feuds—somehow made a shady deal with a Panamanian drug lord and gave him explicit access to a biological weapon that hasn’t even been approved by the government?  I mean, you do know how fucked that sounds, right?”

Enjolras was sitting up now, leaning his bare back against the cold wall.  “At the time, it was still just a theory.  My father’s pretty good at covering his tracks, hence why he still holds a prominent position in the U.S. government.  But six months later, my family moved into a $1.4 million house and considering his government salary was only $200,000 a year, well, you do the math.”

“Does he know?” Grantaire asked, his eyes penetrating Enjolras with fierce concern.  “That _you_ know, that is.  Is he aware that you have this damning information against him?”

“I might have made an off the cuff remark about it the night I left home, but I didn’t provide any real proof so I don’t think he considers me to be a threat.  If he did, he probably wouldn’t have left me alone for the last 6 years.”

Grantaire acted impulsively then, lunging forward to lay his head in Enjolras’ lap, encircling the man’s narrow waist with his arms protectively.  “And to think I was once all Gung-Ho about making you an active freedom fighter.  I mean, just imagine if Petitjean saw you in the public eye now and people started to question him about it…what if staging your death was no longer good enough and he wanted to do it for real this time?”

Carding his fingers through Grantaire’s bushy mane, Enjolras sighed.  “I honestly wouldn’t put it past him.  He killed 68,000 innocent people before.  What’s one more?”

“No,” Grantaire grumbled, pulling the blonde closer as if willing their flesh to be melded into one.  “I won’t let him have you.  We’ll just stay locked up in this room forever.  That’s not a bad idea, right?  I mean, you can go to class if you absolutely have to, but no more extra-curriculars and no more ABC meetings.  It’s too risky.  Once you graduate, we can move to Alaska and buy a cozy, little shack in the middle of nowhere.”

The smile that formed on Enjolras’ face couldn't be helped.  He rather liked protective Grantaire, and proved it as he leaned down to kiss the man tenderly.  “Though I appreciate your willingness to resort to covert escape plans at a moment’s notice, there’s really nothing to worry about.  As I said, I'm not a current threat to him.  Even if I wanted to expose his corrupt, murderous behavior, I don’t hold enough power to get people to listen to what I have to say, let alone _believe_ it.  College is our only concern right now, and once we get through that we’ll be just fine.”  Enjolras paused, taking on a serious tone as he said his next words.  “And I do mean _we_.”

This was that part in every Disney movie where the two main characters would burst into song about finding true love and happily ever after.  Thankfully, they were in the real world and not an animated film, because Grantaire never sang unless he was in the shower and completely alone.  He did feel an overwhelming sense of joy though, because Enjolras had just said ‘we’—he said ‘we’ and he actually _meant_ it.  “I like the sound of that.  So…can we make out now?”

Enjolras bit his lip coyly, hoping to make good on the man’s request and then some.


	19. Will You Be My Valentine? (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! LONG time, no see. For real, though, sorry it took a ridiculously long time to get back into this story. Life, as many of you well know, happens. Anywho, I'm not 100% sure how I feel about this first part of the chapter (I personally like part 2 MUCH more), but I wanted to get this out and done with. So, here you go!
> 
> These next two chapters aren't really vital to the story, I just thought it might be nice to look at all the couples (and non-couples) on Valentine's Day.
> 
> The story will really start to take a turn for the worse by chapter 21, so be prepared!
> 
> Toodles! ; )

It was a cloudy, and somewhat blistery, February morning, but Grantaire hardly noticed because he was…well, happy.  It was kind of a big deal too, because happiness wasn’t a word he threw around carelessly, considering the deck of cards he had been dealt throughout most of his life.  It was great to have someone who made him happy, who made him smile blissfully at the mere thought of him.

Grantaire was counting down the hours until their secret rendezvous tonight—something they had to do, at least until graduation—when his second favorite person made her presence known, ramming into his side and knocking him a bit off balance.

“You’re a violent person, you know that?”  He made a show of rubbing his arm to see if Cosette would take pity on him.  It came as no surprise that she didn’t.  “You might want to consider seeking help.”

Cosette shrugged.  “Don’t know how much good that will do, since a therapist will just tell me my repressed anger is due to an ‘absence of a prominent maternal figure in my life’.  Besides, I’ve got Marius now.  He helps me look at the rational side of things before I decide to do something rash like chew out the incompetent sales associates at Target.”

“Bravo, Marius,” Grantaire thought aloud.  Perhaps the freckle-faced dork really was the perfect match for her after all.  “And how is the weather up there in Paradise?  All comfy and cozy in your little love nest?”

He was trying to bait Cosette, because sugary sweet professions of love and romance usually triggered her gag reflex, but it wouldn’t work this time.  Not when she had ammunition of her own.  “Shouldn’t I be asking you the same question?”  She nudged him with her elbow, pairing the action with a suggestive wink.

“I thought we agreed,” he said, staring straight ahead as they walked across campus, “that I was going to tell you what happened ‘once’ and then we weren’t going to speak of it again until I could…DTR, so to speak.”

Cosette covered her mouth, stifling a giggle.  “Listen to yourself!  DTR?  Since when did you adopt the lingo of a lovesick teenager?  You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you act this way over a guy before.  Are you like whipped or something?”  Grantaire snarled.  “Oh my gosh!  Please do not tell me that severe, pompous asshat actually has YOU whipped.”

Though Grantaire had always felt at ease sharing every thought in his head to his best friend of 14 years, the topic of Enjolras was an unstable one.  Talking about it, about them, might give him false hope about what they actually meant to each other.  Well, really only what _he_ meant to Enjolras.  Grantaire had known from the beginning how he felt about the blonde pacifist and nothing would change that.

Everything was still so new though.  It had only been three days since their limbs first entwined in that most intimate of acts, and they had been together every night since.

But how was he to know this wasn’t just a passing fancy for Enjolras?  That was a question only the man himself could answer, and until Grantaire had the guts to ask him, their pseudo-relationship was a moot point.  “Can we please talk about something else?  Or do I really need to make good on my threat to tell everyone your ‘real’ name?”

A noise that sounded suspiciously like a dog’s growl resonated deep within Cosette’s chest.  “You wanna play hardball, huh? Blackmailing me with the name card?  You know, one of these days I’m just going to tattoo that godforsaken name on my forehead so you can’t use it as leverage anymore!”  Grantaire just shrugged, in that usual, unaffected way he does.  “But I suppose I still win this round, because if we can’t talk about your love life then I’m going to force you to listen to the intimate and overly cliché details of mine.”

Looking back, Grantaire should’ve realized that he brought this on himself.

“As you might’ve already witnessed,” Cosette continued, “Marius and I are extremely happy.  We’ve been together for about a month now, and even though that is not a long time by most people’s standards, I can honestly say that this is the best relationship I’ve ever been in and I have no intention to let him go anytime soon.  We do as many things as we can together, when I’m not in class or on hall duty.  He helps me make cute little name tags to stick on my residents’ doors and I’m currently teaching him how to knit a scarf.  Ooh, and because Marius has such a kind, likeable face, the lunch lady lets us sneak into the cafeteria during non-operational hours so we can both practice our cooking skills…”

“Oh my god, I will literally pay someone to kill me right now,” Grantaire groaned.

Cosette grinned, finding no greater satisfaction than in torturing her best friend with details of her cutesy, domestic life.  “I know deep down, somewhere in that cynical heart of yours, you’re at least the slightest bit jealous of my relationship with Marius.  You may even wish you were Marius if I told you about the surprise Valentine’s dinner I’ve got planned for him tonight.”

“I hate to break this to you, Sunshine, but no one actually wishes they were Marius.”  The joke would’ve lasted longer had Grantaire not caught onto the implication of Cosette’s previous statement.  “Hang on.  Did you say Valentine’s?  As in, Valentine’s Day?  As in, tonight?  You mean to tell me that today is actually Valentine’s Day?  Holy shit!  I slept with Enjolras three days before Valentine’s Day.  What the fuck was I thinking?”

Scrunching up her nose, Cosette looked over at her friend.  “I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that you weren’t…at least not with the correct anatomy.  What’s the big deal anyway?  I thought you were practically convinced that Enjolras only sees you as a one-night stand.  Or three-night stand, in your case.”

Grantaire’s eyes were wide and searching.  “Yes, but let’s consider the microscopic possibility that he wants to DTR—”

“Ugh!  Stop saying that.”

“—and he expects me to make some kind of romantic gesture like buy him one of those bears with the hearts on it or a hallmark card that spouts something cheesy about ‘eternal love’.  I don’t do that shit.  You know I don’t do that shit.”

“Relax,” Cosette said, rolling her eyes at her friend’s theatrics.  “You guys haven’t even been on a proper date yet.  I’m sure he doesn’t expect a thing.”

 

\------ 

 

Paying attention to a lecture on precipitation was the least of Bossuet’s concerns at the moment.  His professor had a monotone voice, so even if he wanted to concentrate, he’d probably doze off within a matter of minutes.

At any rate, Bossuet’s thoughts were otherwise engaged, as he could not shake the feeling that this was going to be the worst Valentine’s Day to date.

Earlier in the week, the notion of celebrating this romantic holiday was certainly something for Bossuet to look forward to.  Having two people to share it with—two people that he adored wholeheartedly and without question—was like a dream come true, and if his lifetime of bad luck had finally run its course, he hoped to spend many more Valentine’s Days with them in years to come.

But his daydreaming morphed into worrying two mornings ago when Musichetta and Joly snuck out of bed early without telling Bossuet where they went or why.  He didn’t see them again until lunchtime, and when he asked where they’d gone, they couldn’t even keep their stories straight.  Something was going on, and by the way they were constantly smiling at each other and sending secret texts, Bossuet saw himself being slowly, but surely, phased out.  He felt like the unwanted third wheel in this relationship and this sobering thought gave him a glimpse of how the rest of this cursed holiday would probably be spent: moping in a public bathroom stall for hours while researching how to get placed into a new housing assignment.

“Lesgle De Meaux,” his science professor shouted across the auditorium, shaking Bossuet from his morbid thoughts.  “I have a note here that says you are wanted in the front office.  Now, I’m not ordinarily keen on allowing any of my students to leave lecture early—and I say this for your own benefit because who is to know if what I say next will be on the midterm—but the note dictates that it is an emergency so you better go quickly, Lesgle.”

“Actually, it’s Bossuet,” he said as he stood and gathered his things.  His professor’s gaze seemed to look right through him, indicating how little the man cared about what name this student preferred to go by.  “Or not.  All right, I’ll just be leaving then.”

He made a b-line for the exit, spirits lifting ever so slightly over the fact that he didn’t have to sit through another minute of his professor droning on about the different ways in which atmospheric water vapor condensates.  These thoughts were fleeting, however, as he remembered why he was leaving early.  The note said something about an ‘emergency’.  What could that mean?  Was his father ill?  Did something happen to Joly or Musichetta?  Thousands of traumatic scenarios wrestled in his head and he wasn’t altogether sure if he could handle the truth.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be as bad as all that though.  Maybe Enjolras sent the note for an emergency residential meeting.  The blonde advisor’s definition of ‘emergency’ was far different from the rest of the world’s.

“Um, hello,” he tentatively announced to the receptionist as he entered the science department’s main office, nerves tingeing his voice to an uncomfortably high octave.  “My name is Boss—I mean, Lesgle.  I believe someone wanted to see me.”

The receptionist looked up from her magazine, a little peeved to be interrupted.  Was everyone going to give him dirty looks today?  Maybe they were just grumpy because they had to spend Valentine’s alone this year.  If that was the case, Bossuet could definitely relate.

“Yeah, I remember the name,” she said curtly.  He thought he heard her mumble ‘who wouldn’t’ under her breath as an afterthought, but maybe he was just imagining things.  She then opened a drawer underneath her desk and pulled out a large manila envelope.  “This was brought in for you about 20 minutes ago.  It was postmarked urgent.”

He took the envelope and politely thanked the woman—to no affect—before finding a private corner to unveil the contents of the mysterious package.  He hastily ripped the top off, unconcerned with the fact that there was a little metal clasp he could’ve easily unhooked, and pulled out what looked to be an anonymous letter.

 

_Dear Sir or Madam,_

_You have been selected for an elite mission, an honor only the brightest minds of the country receive.  We have been watching you closely and believe you are an ideal candidate for this job—a job that, at this time, cannot be disclosed, in case this letter was to fall into the wrong hands.  If you wish to blindly accept this mission, boldly going where few others have gone before, carefully follow the instructions below:_

**_Step 1:_ ** _There is a bonfire located in the east quad of campus. Toss this letter into the fire and make sure it disintegrates completely._

**_Step_ ** _**2:** Walk 120 paces north of the bonfire until you reach a black garbage can. There will be an unmarked package taped to the underside of the lid._

**_Step 3:_ ** _Follow the instructions received in the second package._

_It is honor doing business with you and we look forward to meeting you in person._

_The Eagle Squad_

**_P.S. – Watch your back._ **

 

This had to be a joke, right?  There was no way this was real…right?

Discounting the possibility that this letter was sent by a top secret government agency—although, living it up ‘Mission Impossible’ style was Bossuet’s ultimate dream and perhaps a small part of him would always hold fast to that dream—he silently wondered if there was even a shred of merit to the words on the page.  Bossuet had never heard of an organization called “The Eagle Squad”, but maybe that was the point.  Maybe, instead of being a top secret government agency, “The Eagle Squad” was a top secret on-campus club.  But for what?  Overly imaginative college students that were bored of the mundane lives they were living?

He still hadn’t completely ruled out the possibility that it was all a big joke.  It wouldn’t be the first time he fell for someone’s prank—he had a long, somewhat depressing history of being the target of April Fool’s Day pranks…in May and August and October and, well, you get the picture.  College was supposed to be different though.  It was supposed to be his opportunity to escape all that.

And for a while there he did.  Well, not exactly in the way that he thought.  The friends Bossuet had made on floor 5A didn’t necessarily shy away from opportunities to poke fun at his ridiculously bad luck, but they still treated him like family and he liked that.  He liked it a lot.

And then it seemed like his unlucky streak was over, the night he and Joly and Musichetta decided to ‘give this thing a go’.  Having these two beautiful people in his life truly made him the luckiest bastard in the world--especially, having Joly.  Joly was his rock.  Joly never laughed at his expense.  Joly empathized with him like no one ever could, and it was nice having someone to unburden himself to.

But was all that about to change?  Would Joly and Musichetta soon realize they were better as a pair and ride off into the sunset without him?  It was Valentine’s Day after all—Bossuet had bought their presents a week ago but was too insecure to give it to them now—and it was starting to look more and more like they wanted to spend it without him.

If only there was something he could do, to prove to both Joly and Musichetta that he was more than just an unfortunate goof.  He wanted them to see that he could do something important, something great.

Maybe this ‘Eagle Squad’ thing was just the ticket! Okay, yes, it could still be a fake.  But if it wasn’t, this club could spark an element of mystery into his life, and maybe that was just what his relationship needed.  A spark!  It was settled.  He would do it for them.  Hell, he would do anything for them.

Without further hesitation, Bossuet began following the instructions to a T.  He burned the letter in the nearby blazing bonfire—some of the students warming up their frozen hands gave him funny looks, but he ignored them and continued on toward the trash can the letter had specified.  Upon seeing it, Bossuet decided to err on the side of caution, gazing around at his surroundings with a subtle scrutiny.  No one was watching him—or so he thought—so he casually stuck his arm through the grate of the trash can until his palm was touching the underside of the lid.

Bossuet removed the package from its confines and began to anxiously open it.  He pulled out a neatly folded jacket, maroon tweed with gold trim on the lapels.  It was a really smart looking jacket, like one he’d seen that a capella group wearing in the auditorium for the holiday showcase.  Sometimes, Bossuet wished he had a talent for singing…

But that was neither here nor there.  The mission was still at hand, and considering these people had gone through the trouble of providing him with such a cool ‘members only’ jacket, it was starting to look less and less like a practical joke.  He glanced inside the envelope for the rest of his instructions but found it empty.  After discarding the envelope in the garbage can, he decided to search the jacket pockets.  This, of course, was a stroke of genius because he found precisely what he was looking for in the left breast pocket.

The contents of the new letter read:

_Dear Sir or Madam,_

_Welcome to The Eagle Squad._

_It is a privilege to have you on board.  As you probably have many questions, we would like to arrange a meeting to brief you on your future success with our organization.  Before we move forward, however, we must ensure that you have not been followed.  It is vital that our efforts do not get compromised.  Please follow the instructions below:_

**_Step 1:_ ** _Put on the jacket._

**_Step 2:_ ** _Fold this note and casually drop it on the ground as you make your way toward the North Tower._

**_Step 3:_ ** _Go to the front desk of the North Tower and request your mail from the attendant. Your next instructions will follow._

_Good luck, comrade._

_The Eagle Squad_

 

This was getting intense.  No matter, Bossuet was well-versed at ‘playing it cool’.  He walked the familiar trek toward his dorm, relinquishing his hold on the letter along the way.  He half considered looking back, just to see if it was still there, but knew it would be a dead giveaway. So, he followed his orders, making it to the front doors of his dorm and then heading straight for the front desk.

“The name’s De Meaux,” he announced confidently, leaning an elbow on the counter, “Lesgles De Meaux.  I’m expecting a letter, and I believe you’re in possession of it.”  Bossuet was falling into this role so effortlessly that he kind of hoped the ‘squad’ was watching and taking notes.  Watching spy movies since the tender age of six taught him a few things.

“Whatever, man,” the attendant replied, trying to contain his laughter as he handed him a small white envelope.

Bossuet opened the letter with the vigor of a child at Christmas.  This one was different.  It was less formal and more to the point.

 

_You have a tail._

_To shake them, go to the B Tower corridor and open the third door on your left.  Await further instruction from us there._

That was it?  That was all he had to do?  Not knowing what to expect around every corner of this adventure was starting to make Bossuet a little anxious.  Sure, it was fun, but what did it all lead to?  And who was tailing him?  More importantly, _why_ was someone tailing him?  In movies, situations like these were exciting and the hero was always one step ahead, ready for action.  In real life…well, let’s just say Bossuet wasn’t completely confident he could hold his own.

With all of these questions circling in his mind, Bossuet moved slowly, purposefully down the instructed corridor in hopes of finally getting some answers.  The closer he got to the door in question, the further he got from public view; the sounds of rubber soles hitting linoleum and mindless student chatter echoing faintly in the distance.

He was almost there, maybe 20 feet away.  He could see the door, which honestly looked like a normal door and not all that special form the outside—but perhaps that was part of its clever deception.  Perhaps, on the other side of the door was a secret entrance to an underground government facility.  Perhaps, Bossuet would soon be privy to Intel that few others had knowledge of.  Perhaps—

Bossuet abandoned these thoughts and stopped in his tracks when he realized that the faint sound of footsteps were closer than he originally assumed.  Someone was following him.  Was it the tail or was it back up?  It was too early in the game for Bossuet to know who to trust.

“Hello?”  Bossuet called to no one in particular.  The soft click of heels against the floor quieted.  It was too quiet now and Bossuet didn’t like it one bit.  He had half a mind to sprint out of there through the emergency exit and find his way back to the safety of him room, because he did not sign up for this!

But that’s just it.  He didn’t sign up.  Bossuet had been chosen, that’s what the first letter said.  Chances are they wouldn’t have picked him unless they thought he was capable of handling this mission without taking the coward’s way out.  The truth was, somewhere deep inside of Bossuet, he also knew he could do this.  He just needed to find that strength and use it to help him push forward.

That strength, of course, was Joly and Musichetta. All of that self-loathing he was filled with an hour ago seemed so petty in comparison to what he was currently caught in the middle of.  So, maybe he was a little insecure about his relationship.  The fact of the matter was that Bossuet loved them both, and he wasn’t going to give them up without a fight. 

In a decisive move, Bossuet bolted down the corridor, moving with a swiftness he wasn’t used to, hoping that whatever was behind that door could protect him.  The door handle was within his reach, he was going to make it, he just knew he would.  As his hand finally closed around the small, brass knob, someone collided into him from behind, shoving Bossuet into the dark room within seconds after he managed to pry the door open. 

The offender closed and locked the door behind them.  Was this a trap?  So much for being safe.

“Who are you?” Bossuet shouted into the darkness. He tried to rely on his other senses since there wasn’t a shred of light in the room, but even trying to do that required most of his effort considering he was scared shitless.  “And what do you want with me?  I’m not a spy, all right?  I’m just a freshman with average grades and a knack for making stupid decisions.  I know nothing and have done nothing except follow those god damn letters, so you might as well give up on the whole interrogation thing if that’s what you’re planning on doing.  Mark my words though, if you so much as threaten my loved ones, I will fuck shit up!”

Bossuet expected a number of disastrous things to happen next, but what he didn’t expect—what he NEVER could have expected—was for the light to turn on and to see his two favorite people in the world standing before him.  They were both wearing sleek trench coats tied at the waist—Joly’s was black and Musichetta’s was a vibrant shade of red.  Their espionage ensembles even included matching fedoras.  Bossuet would’ve thought they looked adorable if he wasn’t so confused and hurt and angry and, well, unable to process a rational thought at the moment.

Musichetta tilted her hat down seductively, covering the majority of her bangs.  “Welcome to the Eagle Squad, Lesgles De Meaux.”

That wasn’t the answer Bossuet was looking for.  He needed to know more, but he also needed to catch his breath before his heart jumped out of his chest.  “Guys,” he started tentatively before bursting out, “what the FUCK is going on here?!”

“Surprise!” they shouted in unison, though their exclamation didn’t possess the expected flair.  It was more half-hearted and uncertain. 

“Um, happy Valentine’s Day?” Joly added when Bossuet still looked as clueless and terrified as he did a minute ago.  The young doctor-to-be then explained further.  “Sorry to leave you in the dark for so long, Boss, but yes, we are the Eagle Squad.  It’s not an official club or anything, it’s just this little name we come up with in honor of you—our favorite ‘bald eagle’, so to speak.”

Bossuet scrunched up his forehead.  “ _You guys_ wrote those letters for me?”

Musichetta’s crooked smile appeared.  “Well, yeah.  It’s our Valentine’s gift to you.  We wanted to do something special and Joly brought up your fascination with spy movies so we decided to do a scavenger hunt, but with a little risk and mystery involved.”  He still didn’t look like he was completely buying it which caused Musichetta to frown.  “You didn’t like it?”

“I’m not sure how I feel about it,” Bossuet replied, running his hands over his flustered face. “I mean, that totally felt real and for a moment or two I actually thought my life was in danger.  But now that I think about it, why would anyone pick me for a top secret mission?  I don’t blame you guys or anything, I just wish I wasn’t so gullible, you know?” 

“But, Boss, we did pick you.”  Joly was looking at him now with a sincerity that was so profound yet so difficult to communicate.  “Chetta and I both care about you a great deal, and we wanted you to see that.” 

“That’s why it took us the last few days to put this scavenger hunt together,” Musichetta added, taking off her fedora and placing it on Bossuet’s head.  “You’re worth it though.  You deserve to be shown how special you are.”

Bossuet shook his head, embarrassed that he actually entertained the thought that they wanted to break up with him.  They weren’t avoiding him.  They were just planning his super extravagant and elaborate Valentine’s Day surprise.  He was truly touched and so happy to have them both in his life.  “I still can’t believe you did this all for me.  The doctor and astronaut teddy bears I bought for you last week seem really lame now.”

“I’m sure we’ll love them,” Musichetta replied before planting a small kiss on his cheek.  “Although, I personally think the greatest gift was when you yelled that you were going to ‘fuck shit up’ in the middle of a pitch black room.  Not gonna lie, it was kinda hot.”

Bossuet merely shrugged, his suave, super sleuth persona reemerging.  “What can I say, I would do anything for the people I love, especially you guys.”

After an affectionate group hug, the trio headed back up to 5A to get ready to go out, toasting to a night that reminded them what they felt for each other: love.

 

\------

 

Montparnasse rode the elevator up to his room, only to immediately turn back around again and head to the downstairs lobby.  There was a DO NOT DISTURB sign on his door.  At least they put a sign up this time, giving Montparnasse a chance to escape the horrors that he had already seen—which was one too many times more than he needed to see.

He silently prayed to the God he didn’t believe in that Jehan would have the decency to light some scented candles afterward.  The stank of hot, sweaty ass was not something he wanted to relive either.

Of course, Montparnasse knew that he really only brought this on himself.  After all, he did help stoke the fires of love between Jehan and Courfeyrac.  Twice.  Apparently, this is the thanks one gets for being a good friend.  He’d have to rethink this whole ‘friendship’ thing in the future.  It involved too much giving and not enough taking.

Just then, a five foot six distraction walked in the front door, which really was perfect timing because Montparnasse was thinking, and thinking was a pastime he could certainly live without.

“Miss Thenadier,” he announced, his voice dripping with an allure that he had purposefully perfected over the years, “you are looking ravishing today, and I do mean ravishing.  How about you ditch your date with the library, put on your skimpiest dress, and come along with me to this intriguing ‘lonely hearts’ dance I discovered over at the Northridge dorms?”

Perhaps there was a large percentage of young women that would swoon at this offer, but Eponine did not fall within that margin—which was part of her charm.  “Sounds nauseating.  I think I’ll pass.”

“Hey, whatever you want to do.  I just figured going out with me would be preferable to studying in seclusion in the Biography section of the library.”

Eponine crossed her arms over her chest defensively.  “What makes you so certain I’m going to the library tonight anyway?”

Montparnasse shrugged.  “Maybe because you’ve been going there practically every night since Marius started dating Cosette.  And don’t try to deny it; your brother sold you out on this one.  Although, a part of me hoped that was just a cover so you could indiscreetly slip out and have some scandalous affair with a professor or something.”  Eponine looked disgusted.  “But alas, you really were in the library all along.  I know this only because I was chatting up this hot blonde and I didn’t realize she was heading to the library until it was too late.  I lasted a total of five minutes before I booked it out of there.  She wasn’t worth it.”

Eponine’s irritability was steadily increasing.  “Is there a point to all this?  One that I may actually give a rat’s ass about?”

The grin that formed on Montparnasse’s face was a natural response to the 19 year-old’s feistiness.  Oddly enough, her utter disdain for him was way more appealing than the dozens of girls that eagerly flocked around him.  “You know damn well what my point is, but I get it.  I’m sure having a pity party for one is a lot easier than accepting that freckled loser is just not into you and finally moving on.  You’re in fucking college, Eponine!  There are at least a hundred guys within a 2 mile radius that would kill to get with you—myself included.”

Eponine tried to hide her blush by glaring at the presumptuous young man.  “If that was your attempt at a compliment—”

“It’s a fact,” Montparnasse quickly interrupted, “not a compliment.  But if I did want to compliment you, I’d probably say something about your almond-shaped eyes or how cute you look in oversized sweatshirts.”

There was no hiding her blush now, so she coyly bit her lip and stared down at her blue chuck taylors instead.  “I don’t wear them to look cute. It’s just that XL sweatshirts are usually the only ones left on the clearance rack.”

He smiled knowingly.  “Well, it’s working for you.”

Eponine groaned.  He was doing it again.  That cocky, charming, overly-confident son of a bitch thing he did.  That look he gave her was 63% annoying and 37% heart fluttering.  How did he manage to make her react this way?  She didn’t want to be with him, she knew that for a fact.  The odds were good that he didn’t want to be with her either, except to fool around in the utility closet once in a while.  That wasn’t a relationship.  Eponine wanted a relationship.

She wanted one with Marius, but Montparnasse was right—something she loathed to admit.  A relationship with Marius was no longer a possibility and she needed to give up on that dream.  It was obvious that Marius and Cosette were going to be together for a while, if not forever; they made each other sickeningly happy.  If Eponine truly cared for Marius, then she would be happy that he was happy.  It was time for her to stop moping and be his friend once again.  After all, they worked well as friends.

Montparnasse was still standing in front of her, gaze expectant and lips curled upward into a devilish smirk.  She needed to be rid of him.  If Eponine was to have any respect for herself, she needed to ignore the temptation of a recurring fling with this dark-haired womanizer.  She only agreed to it before because she was vulnerable and thought she needed a temporary replacement for the long-term love she couldn’t have.  But Eponine was made of stronger stuff than that.  Montparnasse was toxic and it was time she told him so.

“Listen, I’ve had about enough of your machismo bullshit,” she declared, posture erect and eyes narrowly squared on Montparnasse’s somewhat shocked face.  “I mean, when are you gonna realize that not every woman wants what you have to offer?  Don’t answer that, it was rhetorical.  You know, believe it or not, cheap, meaningless sex is not the holy grail of propositions.  There are a lot of us who have much higher expectations than that.  So, as enticing as your ‘lonely hearts club’ offer sounds—insert sarcasm here—I think I’d much prefer spending my evening—”

“Nosing through books in a dark corner of the library?” he interjected like the snarky prat he was. Damnit!  Even when Eponine had the upper hand, he always had to swoop in and try to win the argument.  He continued.  “I get it.  Well, I mean, I don’t.  Books, in my humble opinion, are rather useless when the internet provides us with an abundance of information right at our very fingertips, but to each his own.  You can’t blame a guy for trying though, right?”

Eponine sighed.  “Perhaps not, but I can blame him for wasting 10 minutes of my life.”

Montparnasse’s grin grew wider.  “I do admire your spirit, Eponine.  Very well, you win.  I will now attempt to find amusement elsewhere.  Here’s hoping another spunky brunette crosses my path within the next 30 minutes.” 

His exit was so swift that she didn’t have the opportunity to send him off with a cunning retort.


	20. Will You Be My Valentine? (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the wait. There was no reason other than my lack of motivation. It's hard to write when you're just not feeling it. I think I need to start reading e/R fics again to get back into the groove.
> 
> Nevertheless, here is the rest of the Valentine's segment. I didn't include a moment between Courf and Jehan because, well, to be honest, it was just too much work. I figured I've been cutsie with them for enough, we can all imagine how disgustingly romantic they would be on Valentine's Day-we don't need the added visuals.
> 
> Hope you like this one! FYI, it's probably only gonna go downhill from here. : \

Cosette checked her phone for the twelfth time in the last 25 minutes…to no effect.  She had no missed calls, texts, or Facebook messages, and that fact was starting to concern her.  Where was Marius?  It wasn’t like him to be late to something, and if he was, he made sure to contact her immediately.  So, why wasn’t he at the restaurant when he was supposed to meet her here a half hour ago?

Surprisingly, she wasn’t mad.  It took a lot to actually be mad at a guy like Marius.  Worried was the more appropriate word.  He certainly wasn’t the type of guy to stand a girl up, and since he had yet to call and update her on his whereabouts, she was starting to think that something might have happened to him.  What if he got into a car accident and had to be taken to the hospital?  What if he got mugged and was currently passed out in some creepy back alley?  What if…

Pondering gruesome ‘what if’ scenarios was the last thing Cosette should be doing.  Instead, she should just be rational and call him.  Until now, she had postponed calling Marius because she didn’t want to ruin the little scavenger hunt she set up for him.  Cosette actually got the idea form Musichetta and Joly.  It wasn’t as elaborate as theirs, but if Marius followed the trail of bread crumbs she left for him (not literal bread crumbs, of course), he should’ve arrived at The Café Musain at precisely 7:30pm. 

And yet, the clock on her phone kept insisting that it had already turned 8:04pm.

Cosette had been really looking forward to this dinner with her beau.  The small, rustic French restaurant opened last fall.  Marius had mentioned wanting to go there on several occasions, so Cosette instantly knew it would be the perfect spot for a romantic evening out.  There were stringed lights littering the ceiling like a cloudless night sky, maroon valance curtains—made of a rich velvet—hanging on every window, and ornately carved mahogany tables which were far from being new, but helped create the ambiance of a Parisian restaurant in the 1900s.  It was all so perfect, and Marius would’ve been enthralled if he were here right now.

But he wasn’t, and at this point there was no explanation why.

The moment Cosette started subconsciously biting her fingernails was around the same moment she realized that waiting was fruitless and she should just call him already.  And so she did, but there was no answer.  Again, no reason to panic.  Maybe his phone was dead—although, if that was the case, wouldn’t it have gone straight to voicemail?  Okay, maybe there was still a logical explanation for all of this.  Maybe Enjolras kidnapped him and the rest of his floor for one of his stupid meetings on dorm etiquette and Marius couldn’t get to his phone.  Stupid Enjolras and his stupidly stubborn rules about on-campus living.

Cosette really just needed to calm the frick down and start looking for answers.  Perhaps Courfeyrac knew Marius’ whereabouts—unless he was still preoccupied celebrating Valentine’s Day with his little redheaded poet.  Steering clear of that love nest seemed to be the most appealing option.  Maybe Eponine knew something—although, that was also a bust since Cosette didn’t actually have Eponine’s number.  Plus, she kind of got the feeling Eponine didn’t like her all too much.  She had Enjolras’ number, but really only wanted to call him as a last resort.  She’d try reaching Grantaire first.  He wasn’t the most observant member of the bunch, but he was Marius’ roommate; which meant there was a possibility he had at least some Intel to give Cosette a lead on Marius’ location.

She dialed 1 (Grantaire has been her emergency contact since high school) and pressed the phone to her ear anxiously.  Nothing.  Shit!  The call failed.  Cosette supposed this is what she got for picking a restaurant out in the boondocks with crappy cell reception.  She abandoned her table and started walking around the restaurant with her phone held high, searching for a spot that would give her more than two bars.

Cosette was now on the other side of The Musain, pacing back and forth, and squinting at her phone as if her mind could magically change the number of bars on the screen.  No such luck.  In the midst of this aimless quest, she did spy something else, though; something very intriguing.  It was a young man seated at a table for two by himself.  He was facing the other way, but something about the back of his head looked alarmingly familiar to Cosette.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she mumbled before marching over to the man’s table and stepping into his line of sight.  “Marius?”

It wasn’t a trick of the light.  Marius was _really_ here…and sitting at a different table (only 20 feet away from hers), staring forlornly at the pyramid of butter squares he had so artfully constructed on the empty plate in front of him.  Cosette began to wonder how long he’d been sitting there.

Marius started at the sound of his name, his knee smacking against the underside of the table and causing the tower a la butter to come crashing down.  The butter didn’t matter though, the moment his eyes fell on Cosette.  “Oh, hey, you made it,” he said, with a dopey smile on his face.  “Have a seat.  So, how was class today?”

Cosette skipped over their usual pleasantries.  “Marius, what are you doing over here?  Didn’t you give my name to the maître de?  I already had a table waiting for us over there.”

Marius’ face looked impossibly adorable whenever he was confused, which was exactly how he looked at present.  “What do you mean _you_ had a table?  I made this reservation a while ago, so I could surprise you for Valentine’s Day?  I’ve kind of been waiting for about an hour now…I was starting to think you, I don’t know, stood me up or something.”

“You did?” Cosette asked, feeling the weight of this whole perplexing situation.  It appeared that their wires had gotten crossed and they both ended up planning the same date for one another.  “But…but I booked this to surprise _you_ for Valentine’s Day.  You didn’t see the note I left on your door?”

Marius shook his head.  “You must’ve put it there after I left.  I had to pick up my suit jacket at the dry cleaners before coming here.  I put a letter in your mailbox asking you to meet me here at 7pm.”

“Oh,” Cosette said, nervously tugging on a few strands of her long, blonde hair, “I don’t check my mailbox unless I’m on hall duty.”  She let out a long sigh as she finally sunk into the chair opposite Marius.  “I can’t believe this totally blew up in our faces!  I mean, I had a scavenger hunt and everything.  You wouldn’t believe the amount of work it took to steal your car keys and reprogram your GPS so that it would take you here.  Not to mention booking the actual reservation.  I knew you really wanted to come to The Musain, but they’ve been completely booked for Valentine’s Day since last Thursday.  Luckily, my boss happens to know the manager and, well, since my boss is kind of afraid of me I was able to pull the right strings to get a table.  Wait, how did _you_ get a table?”

Marius looked down at the piles of butter on his plate, a blush creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks.  “I booked it a month ago, after our…our first kiss.”

“You did?” Cosette repeated, slightly breathless and more than a little flustered.  Marius was already planning their future even before their first date.  Marius had faith in that future.  And because of this knowledge, Marius was also the reason her heart was beating wildly and a bit out of tune.  “Sometimes, I think you’re too perfect to be real.”

His eyes bulged in astonishment.  “Me?  We both know I’m far from perfect.  You, on the other hand, are the model of perfection.  I knew it the first time I saw you walk into that elevator nearly five months ago.  My God, you’re an angel, Cosette, and I look at every moment I get to spend with you as a privilege that I will always strive to deserve.”

She wasn’t going to cry.  She was not.  Cosette was a strong, fierce and independent woman, so she rarely found cause to cry.  But Cosette was also not used to this chivalry, this idea of love that, before, she thought only existed in fairytales.  Marius was definitely real though, and it wasn’t until he came into her life that she realized he was exactly what she needed.  “I think I’m in love with you,” she announced disbelievingly as a single tear slid down her freshly painted cheek.  It came as a great shock that she genuinely could love someone after knowing them for such a short time.  But it was true.  Cosette was ‘head over heels’ in love with Marius Pontmercy.

Marius reached across the table to grasp her hands within his own, his bright eyes gazing at her with all the affection his heart possessed.  “I think I’ve always been in love with you.”

 

 

When Grantaire finally made it up to the 5th floor of his dormitory, he quickly darted around the corner toward his suite instead of going to Enjolras’ room like he originally planned.

It was almost laughable, how nervous he was acting.  Almost.  Instead, he was mortified about going to see the blonde statue because it was V-Day and what if he expected some grand gesture form Grantaire and he couldn’t deliver (because gestures are totally not in his repertoire), and Enjolras tries to hide his disappointment even though the seed had been planted and was starting to eat away at him, until one day he realizes Grantaire isn’t what he wants and just stops calling and—“Oh my god!  I fucking sound like Pontmercy!”

He really did, which was highly unusual considering Grantaire didn’t make it a habit of getting worked up over the little things.  Sure, he had his share of irrational mood swings—especially when alcohol was involved—but he never openly feared the outcome of a situation and he certainly wasn’t an over-thinker.  If anything, he was an ‘under-thinker’, generally choosing not to take heed of the consequences of his actions.

So, he mentally slapped himself and made a start for Enjolras’ room.  Everything would turn out fine, he decided.  There was a very good chance the blonde had no expectations about exchanging Valentine’s Day gifts since they had been flirting with this idea of a relationship—that still had no label—for a grand total of three days.  Like always, Grantaire just had shitty timing.

As a precaution though, Grantaire stopped at a pawn shop this afternoon and picked up a little trinket he thought Enjolras would like.  It wasn’t much—having $5 in his pocket pretty much insured that he’d have to set his sights low—but it did practically cry out Enjolras’ name when he first stumbled upon it. 

Again, it wasn’t the mother of all Valentine’s Day gifts, but it was good enough to serve its purpose: as a backup plan.  After purchasing the small, used item, Grantaire placed it in an old jewelry box—which he had lying around because his mother actually thought it was a clever idea to buy him cufflinks for Christmas—and then stuffed it into his pants pocket, where it would remain unseen unless Enjolras decided he was in a gift-exchanging mood after all.  If the topic was never breached, then Enjolras never needed to know of its existence.

As Grantaire finally made it to Enjolras’ door, he performed the secret knock. 

Enjolras opened his door, giving the shaggy brunette a puzzled look.  “What was that?”

“It’s the secret knock,” Grantaire replied with a shrug.

The blonde’s puzzlement only increased.  “But we don’t have a secret knock.”

“Well, maybe we should! That way you’ll know when it’s me and not one of your annoying residents.”

Enjolras was contemplating the irony of that statement when the elevator chimed and several residents stumbled out into the lobby.  It was Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet.  They were all giggling and swaying in that characteristic, ‘drunk college student’ way—Enjolras was well aware of the fake IDs they frequently used to get into the local bars—but even in their inebriated state, Enjolras thought it was too risky for them to see Grantaire standing at the precipice of his door without having just cause.

“Uh,” Enjolras stuttered, which wasn’t like him, being the poised orator that he was, “thank you for bringing that to my attention, Grantaire.”  He made sure to speak loudly, so that the giggling trio could hear his phony excuse.  “I’ll make sure maintenance gets a chance to look at that window this weekend.”

“What?” Grantaire asked at the same moment Bossuet began fiddling with his key in the lock—it took several, uncoordinated attempts.

As they crossed the threshold into Joly and Bossuet’s room, Musichetta poked her head out once more to acknowledge her advisor’s presence.  “Goodnight, Enjolras.  Goodnight, Grantaire.  Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”  She then artfully winked at the pair before finally seeking solace behind closed doors.

The lobby was silent once more.  Enjolras clenched his fists as he tried to decipher what Musichetta’s remark meant and, furthermore, how much she knew.  Grantaire, on the other hand, was staring down the hallway at the door the trio just entered, equal parts confusion and curiosity marring his features.

“So, am I the only one that thinks that whole arrangement’s a little fucked up?” Grantaire asked, turning back to Enjolras and quirking an eyebrow comically.

Enjolras shook his head, his lips having formed a thin line.  “Their personal life is none of our business, Grantaire.  Besides, you and I both know how far from perfect relationships can be.”

Unsure where Enjolras’ hostility was coming from, Grantaire had already made up his mind that he wasn’t going to stand for it.  “And on _that_ cue, I’m gonna head out.  I would say that it was a pleasure talking to you, but I don’t take much pleasure in conversing with an uptight jackass.”

Okay, so Enjolras _was_ being a jackass, and it really wasn’t fair to Grantaire.  He didn’t do anything wrong, it was just so nerve-wracking not knowing how to act around one another in public.  And then there was Musichetta’s little, suggestive comment to consider.  Did that mean that she already knew about their secret affair?  More importantly, could she be trusted to keep it a secret, as well?  Musichetta didn’t seem like the type to speak frankly about delicate situations that were not her concern—she had some class, after all—but that didn’t stop Enjolras from wondering if the next person that caught them in the act would be so kind.

The frazzled dorm advisor slunk against his door frame.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to snap at you, I’m just…worried.”

“About what ‘Chetta said?” Grantaire asked.  The blonde nodded joylessly.  “You need to relax, Enjolras.  She’s not gonna say anything and I honestly can’t picture anyone else on this floor blabbing about it either—well, maybe Courf, but the only person he’d tell is Jehan, so that doesn’t count.  It’s not like we’re making out in the cafeteria surrounded by hundreds of prying eyes.  We’re just talking.  I simply came over here to talk to you...or, at least, that’s all anyone walking by needs to think.”

Enjolras couldn’t stop the grin from forming on his face even if he tried, and to ensure that they didn’t waste another moment of their brief time together, Enjolras swiftly grabbed his favorite resident by the shirt collar and pulled him into his room—remembering to lock the door behind them.

Soft lips eagerly assaulted Grantaire’s neck; lips that knew how to apply just the right amount of pressure to make his skin tingle and his knees tremble.  As if that wasn’t enough of a shock being sent through all of Grantaire’s nerve endings, hands dexterously slid down Grantaire’s chest and stomach until they found the waistband of his jeans, making quick work of unbuttoning the top and tugging the zipper all the way down.  “Whoa there, Tiger.  Don’t you think you should at least buy me dinner first?”

Enjolras paused in his ministrations and looked up at the scruffy-faced brunette. “Grantaire, you know we can’t be seen in public like this until I graduate.  I thought I had made that perfectly clear.”

“Trust me, you have,” Grantaire replied with a subtle shake of his head, because Enjolras’ broken record act was getting tired, “on several occasions.  It was just an expression, because it kinda seems like you’re trying to move things a little too quickly.  I mean, I’m all for getting down to business, but one minute you’re lecturing me about complicated relationships and the next you’re trying to pull my pants off.  I feel like there should be more of an in-between, no?”

“I’m not sure I understand your logic,” Enjolras said, looking at Grantaire with a furrowed brow.  That confused yet stern look he had mastered was bound to send Grantaire to an early grave.  “Are you talking about foreplay?  Because I don’t know how comfortable I am with that.”

The now blushing brunette suppressed a laugh.  “Not exactly.  It’s just…all I’m saying is that just because we’re having sex now—which, may I add, I thoroughly enjoy and have no intention of stopping—it doesn’t mean we can’t just sit and talk like we used to.  You know, about politics or education or whatever the hell you wish to talk about in the moment.  I guess, I don’t want you thinking that what we have is _just_ sex, if that makes sense.”

“I think I follow,” Enjolras replied, nodding as he gave his lover a once-over, “and I certainly don’t want you to think that all I care about is sex either.  This thing—this relationship—it’s all so new to me and I haven’t quite learned my role just yet.  Therefore, I am sorry if I made you think my intentions were less than honorable, so to speak.  But, may I also say, that you look really hot in this shirt.  Have I told you yet how much I like you in the color green?”

“No,” came Grantaire’s steadfast answer, smirking seductively, “but I’ll be sure to keep that in mind as I get dressed from now on.”

Sucking his lower lip in between his teeth, Enjolras was now fixedly staring at Grantaire’s mouth.  No, really!  He was staring in that longing, ‘just stumbled upon an oasis after being deprived of food for several days’ kind of way.  It was, well, it was incredibly sexy and all of a sudden it seemed like the temperature in the room went up about 20 degrees, so Grantaire really didn’t need more of an invitation than that. 

“Fuck it.  We can always talk in the morning.”

Their lips sought each other out hungrily, moving in a synchronization that felt right and put all previous kisses to shame.  It was the first time Grantaire’s mouth didn’t taste of whiskey, and though the stench of alcohol never really was a hindrance for him before, Enjolras rather enjoyed the hint of cinnamon that lingered even as their tongues clashed in a dance they both knew so well.  They kissed as if they had been doing it for years, knowing so much about each other’s mouths and bodies, yet still wanting to know more.

Enjolras took things to the next level, guiding Grantaire towards the bed and gently sitting him down.  He then slowly, but surely, straddled Grantaire’s legs, arms fastening behind the man’s neck to draw their aching bodies closer

It was really quite extraordinary to see this side of Enjolras.  To everyone else, he was the stoic leader; a man who compartmentalized every aspect of his life and was uncompromising in his principles.  But Grantaire was one of the lucky few that got to see this man of marble for the man of flesh that he truly was.  Enjolras had scars like everyone else—emotional ones that tore deep into his chest and left him jaded, untrusting.  Enjolras was often insecure, and though there was no love lost between him and his father, there would always be that doubt in the back of his mind if he could ever be worth loving at all.

But what Grantaire treasured most—which he had the delight to witness at present as Enjolras canted his hips slightly from his position on Grantaire’s lap—was the look of total abandon that swept over his face when he truly allowed himself to give into passion.  It was beautiful.  He looked free.  It was as if Enjolras had actually forgotten these base desires existed within him, and now that they were felt, he didn’t want to let them go.

Yes, Grantaire really did consider himself the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet for somehow getting this god-like creature to choose him, to want him so desperately.

“What is that?” Enjolras asked breathlessly, his mouth raw and eyelids heavy with unadulterated desire.

“What’s what?” Grantaire mumbled out, matching Enjolras’ unsteady panting as he nuzzled against the man’s chest, trying to commit his heavenly scent to memory.

As Enjolras found his breath once more, he leaned back to create a nominal amount of distance between them.  The more distance, the more likely he would be able to properly use his words again.  “That thing in your pocket, it’s digging into my thigh.  And don’t you dare say something about it being happy to see me because that is definitely NOT banana-shaped.”

Hoping that by removing the offending object, they could go back to making out—and potentially let that escalate into something more—Grantaire shifted slightly so he could reach into his pocket, but his hand froze midway through the process.  Eyes suddenly flashing with realization, Grantaire tried to play it off as nothing, his face taking on a look of calm complacency once more.  He closed his hand tightly around the small box but refused to bring it into view.

“What?” the blonde asked inquisitively.

It was too late.  Enjolras’ curiosity had been piqued.  There was little chance of avoiding this confrontation now.

“Nothing.”

The lust that had previously glazed over Enjolras’ eyes abruptly faded, now replaced by a look that could only be described as a predator hunting its prey.  It was the same look he got whenever he entered a Debate Team Conference.  So, naturally this meant that Grantaire was fucked—and not in the good way.  “Bullshit!  Tell me what’s in your pocket.  Are you actually trying to hide something from me?”

“That’s ridiculous.  I’m not—Hey!  Knock it off!”  Grantaire had to use all of his strength to prevent Enjolras from yanking his hand out of his pocket and prying his fingers open.  “Listen, it _really_ is nothing, okay?  I brought it with me as a precaution, but my assumption was wrong and it turns out that I don’t need it.  So, let’s just forget it’s even there and go back to what we were doing a minute ago.”

Enjolras crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes at the man in front of him.  He was still straddling Grantaire’s lap, which was a feat in itself considering their previous tussle over the mysteriously hidden box.  It suddenly made sense why, in spite of Enjolras’ disapproving glare, Grantaire was still as hard as a rock.

“Nice try,” Enjolras drawled unwaveringly, “but I’m going to find out what’s in your pocket one way or another.  So, the only question that remains is whether you want me to do this the easy way or the hard way?”

“I’m tempted to say the hard way, in the hope that your straight-laced interrogation methods actually involve bondage.  I’ll admit it, I’d be into that.”

A long moment of silence passed between them as they matched each other, stare for stare.  Though, the newfound twinkle in Enjolras’ eyes should’ve signaled what was to happen next.

Removing himself from Grantaire’s lap, and deliberately brushing against the front of his pants in the process, Enjolras got up and walked to the other side of the room.  “Well,” he said smugly, “if you’re not going to play nice…then maybe we shouldn’t play at all.”

That fucker really did know how to play dirty.  “Is this a joke?  Please tell me this is a joke.  You did not just withhold sex because I’m refusing to let you win this one.  I mean, do you not know what this does to a guy?  You’re going to leave me with a serious case of blue balls, just because I’ve decided to keep a secret from you?”

“In fact,” Enjolras continued, stifling a fake yawn, “I’m feeling really tired all of a sudden, so maybe we should call it a night and I’ll just see you sometime tomorrow…if I’m not too busy, that is.”

What else was Grantaire really going to do?  At this point, he didn’t think it was physically possible for him to get off of the bed, especially not when Enjolras still looked half-wrecked—his lips red and swollen, and his wild mane of blonde curls thrown haphazardly across one shoulder.  It was bad enough when the beautiful blonde unknowingly held that power over Grantaire, but now he was purposely exploiting that power.  The man was an enigma—an enigma he would never be rid of, like it or not.

With a pronounced groan, Grantaire pulled out the object in question and tossed it in Enjolras’ general vicinity.  “You’re a spoiled brat and I hope you know that.  And don’t pretend like my walking out of here would’ve been easy for you either!  You may have self-control over most aspects of your life, but sex is clearly not one of them.”

Enjolras’ only response was to roll his eyes as he pried open the miniature white box.  Inside was a gold pin, no larger than his thumb, emblazoned with the words ‘Vive La Republic’.  “What’s this for?”

Grantaire shrugged, his insecurities returning.  “It’s stupid, really.  I forgot that it was Valentine’s Day until about five hours ago, and I know this ‘us’ thing hasn’t really been established yet, but I didn’t know what you’re expectations were regarding Valentine’s Day and I didn’t want to disappoint you, but I also didn’t want to scare you off by coming on too strong and making ‘us’ too official.  So, I picked this up on my way back to the dorm today because it reminded me of you, but I wasn’t planning on actually giving it to you unless you happened to get me something and now you’ve shot that all to hell.”  Silence engulfed the room as Enjolras stared at Grantaire in wonderment while Grantaire really only had the courage to stare at his hands.  “As a side note, I fucking hate Valentine’s Day.”

“You bought me a Valentine’s Day present?”

This topic was tired and Grantaire half-considered taking up Enjolras’ earlier offer of calling it a night.  “Can we please drop this?  There’s no reason for you to read too much into it.  I was just trying to cover all my bases.”

Grantaire couldn’t see the grin spreading on Enjolras’ face—because he still refused to look up at him—but he could hear it in the sudden lilt of his voice.  “So, I’m your Valentine, huh?”

“Maybe,” he replied coyly, his own lips turning upward of their own volition.  He finally met Enjolras’ gaze to see if he could get a better read on what the man was thinking.  Looking at Enjolras now sparked a flashback to the first day he set eyes on him, a vision in red and black with golden tresses so majestic that Grantaire momentarily thought he had died and had come face to face with an angel—though he wasn’t entirely sure angels existed, but Enjolras’ existence was enough to make him question everything he previously knew or believed.  “God, you’re beautiful.”

It was Enjolras’ turn to play coy.  He laughed and tried to brush it off as a trivial observation.

But the emotion bursting from Grantaire’s chest was so powerfully felt that he needed Enjolras to understand the full weight of his words.  “No, I mean it.  You are literally the most beautiful person I’ve ever met.  And I’m not just saying that because you have a face that was probably sculpted by the gods.  I’m talking about you, Enjolras—all of you.  Each time that I learn something new about you, it’s like I’m falling for you all over again.  Your soul is pure and good and I’m so invested in this thing between us that I would follow you to the ends of the Earth if you asked me to.  _To the ends of the Earth_ , Enjolras.  I believe in you.  I believe that you have changed my life for the better and I don’t want to be without this feeling ever again.”

A man of many words, Enjolras suddenly had none.  How was it that Grantaire so easily had this effect on him?  Well, perhaps it wasn’t easy as all that.  The chemistry that had evolved between him and Grantaire was a phenomenon he couldn’t rightly explain.  Enjolras brought to memory that evening he told Grantaire that they were like opposite ends of a coin.  Perhaps that analogy held more truth than he realized.  They really were two halves of a coin—two halves that, if separated, would no longer have any meaning.

“You’re very poetic when you need to be,” Enjolras eventually responded, wondering how he was still standing there and not just a pile of mush on the ground.  “But there is one fault in your praise.  I would never ask you to follow me, Grantaire.  You have your own life and I trust that you would make your own decisions.  But, since we are now speaking in full disclosure, if you were to follow me of your own will, I would be overjoyed to have your company.”

That was all Grantaire needed to hear to force himself off of Enjolras’ bed and into the man’s waiting arms.  Grantaire held Enjolras’ face in his hands and pushed their foreheads together, heavy breathing and an impalpable desire filling the spaces in between.  “So, does this mean you’ll be my fucking boyfriend now?”

Enjolras just smiled before silencing Grantaire with his lips.

 

 

The next morning, an urgent rapping woke the nestling pair.  Being a light sleeper, Enjolras recognized immediately that it was coming from his door.  As he maneuvered himself out of Grantaire’s embrace to answer it, he watched the brunette groggily roll over and mumble something about “5 more minutes”, which was adorable and made it even harder for Enjolras to get out of bed.

And when he saw who was on the other side of the door, he instantly regretted getting up to answer it.

“Combeferre,” he said, unable to hide the surprise in his voice.  “What are you doing here so early?  I thought we weren’t meeting till later.”  He made sure his door was only open enough for his face to peek through. 

“This couldn’t wait,” the bespectacled blonde replied, hastily brushing passed Enjolras with ease and closing the door behind him to afford them some privacy.  Except, a moment later, Combeferre realized that closing the door did not mean that they were alone.

Enjolras was in a panic, looking everywhere except directly at his best friend, wondering how he was going to reason why there was  a disheveled brunette in his bed—and if that reason would stop him from becoming the unfortunate recipient of a longwinded lecture.  “’Ferre, I can explain—”

Combeferre waived him off.  “We’ll talk about _that_ ,” he pointed at Grantaire’s sleeping form, “later.  Right now, we’ve got a much bigger problem on our hands.”

Enjolras was intrigued—and slightly worried by the nervous edge in Combeferre’s voice.  “What is it?”

“Turn on the news.”


	21. The Grasp Has Been Released From the God Awful Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, all. I know this is slow going but I promise the finish line is just around the corner!

_“Right now, we’ve got a much bigger problem on our hands.”_

_Enjolras was intrigued—and slightly worried by the nervous edge in Combeferre’s voice.  “What is it?”_

_“Turn on the news.”_

 

“Thanks, Tom,” the anchorwoman said, a well-practiced, facetious smile adorning her face.  “More on that story as it develops.  If you’re just tuning in, our breaking news of the day has the Twittersphere and other social media sites abuzz.  That’s right, Secretary of State Adrien Petitjean has officially announced his candidacy for President this morning at a rally in Central Park.  He will be running for the 2013-2016 term and is so far unopposed in the republican race.  Already a fan favorite house leader since ending the war in Somalia, Petitjean’s promises for a brighter tomorrow had the citizens of New York City singing his praises.”

The camera then cut to some earlier footage of Petitjean’s speech.  The man presented himself just as Enjolras always remembered him to appear: finely tailored suit, cleanly shaven face, gray hairs well hidden beneath regular applications of auburn hair dye (aging was not something he easily welcomed).  Enjolras was utterly flummoxed as he watched his father—though, even thinking of this man as his father was still a bitter pill to swallow—seduce the crowd and captivate audiences at home with his winning smile and pretty words.

Petitjean stood behind a podium, his voice rich like honey and dripping with the sweet taste of empty promises.  “Today, we find ourselves gathered not only because of our united love for this great country, but also because we are concerned about it.  The unemployment rate is up, fair wages appear to be a far-reaching dream, and the war on terror is ever-present and ever-growing.  Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but this is not the America we envisioned for ourselves.  We are, however, extremely fortunate to live in a democracy, and I say that if we want to see change, then _we_ have to do it ourselves!”

His words were deliberately punctuated as he slammed his fist against the podium and pointed at different sections of the crowd to make them feel included, a part of something bigger.  His artifice wasn’t even what bothered Enjolras the most.  What really sickened him was how every single person in that crowd ate up his bullshit as if change was going to happen now instead of after the election—which was still nine months away.

The sight of this murderous con artist spewing lies to the people of this country was almost too much for Enjolras to bear.  With his head hung low, he rubbed his eyes vigorously, as if to remove the images and memories of this tyrannical man from his brain.  “I fear, Combeferre,” he said at last, “that we are all so very fucked.”

“Oh, we haven’t even gotten to the worst part yet.  Just listen.”

Enjolras lifted his head just as the cheering in Central Park began to die down, allowing the Secretary of State to speak once more.

“Turning around a crisis,” Petitjean continued, “takes experience and bold action.  Well, my friends, our economy is certainly in a crisis, but that doesn’t mean we should abandon it just yet.  There are untapped resources that President Javert has turned a blind eye to because he doesn’t think they’re worth the risk.  Do you want to know what I say to that?  What if the American Patriots didn’t take a risk and stand up against Parliament to fight for our independence?  What if Lincoln didn’t risk his presidency and his life to put an end to slavery?  What if FDR chose not to risk a new, liberalist platform to eventually lead this country out of the Great Depression?  Each of these historic decisions took great risk and great courage.  So, if our current generation wishes to go down in history as a time when America was at its best, then we need to start creating jobs!”

The crowd became uproarious then—loud, enthusiastic, and ready to make their mark in this world.

“We need to jump start our economy by decreasing taxes and increasing spending!”

—More thunderous applause—

“And we need to improve our diplomatic relations across the globe, so that we may co-exist peacefully with countries like Somalia, Israel, Panama, and Libya!”

The TV screen cut back to the news anchor, but Enjolras didn’t register anything she said, his head reeling as he tried to process the impact of one fatal word of his father’s proclamation.

_…Panama…Panama…Panama…_

Enjolras let out a slow, shaky breath and closed his eyes, searching for a moment of tranquility so he wouldn’t act on his urge to rip the TV from its socket and chuck it out of the 5th story window.  “This was never really going to be over, was it?”

Combeferre placed a supportive hand on his friend’s shoulder before replying.  “A man who has committed such heinous crimes should not be allowed to thrive and go unpunished.  There are repercussions for taking innocent people’s lives, and as terrifying as it sounds, you hold your father’s fate in your hands.”

“He’s not my father,” Enjolras said with a grimace.  “He hasn’t been for years, and I am perfectly content with never associating with him or the rest of my family until I’m dead and buried.”

“And what of the rest of the country?” came Combeferre’s sharp retort.  “Or the world, for that matter.  Would you turn your back on everyone else?  That’s what you’d be doing if Petitjean continues to run without objection.  He’s going to win, Enjolras.  He’s going to win…unless you expose him for the man he truly is.”

The blonde pacifist shook his head with the same uncertainty that had plagued him these last six years.  “You say that like it’s the easiest thing in the world, when, in fact, it’s incredibly dangerous and will also be extremely difficult to prove considering I’m dead—or, at least, that’s what he’s convinced everyone to believe.  No one’s going to believe a kid presumed dead over the god damn Secretary of State.”

“If we can get them to listen, they’ll believe.”

Up until that moment, Enjolras had completely forgotten about the other person in his room—the same person he happened to share his bead with that night.  He turned around to see Grantaire sitting up, all traces of sleep gone and a grave look on his face as he stared at Enjolras—as if it actually broke his heart to say those words.

“I thought,” Enjolras started tentatively, trying to be careful with his word choice due to their third-party observer.  “I thought you didn’t want me to act on this, that it would throw me into the fire.”

Grantaire sighed, resting his cheek in his palm.  “I didn’t, and, God help my selfishness, there is still a part of me that will continue to think that this is a bat shit crazy idea.”  He wanted to reach out for Enjolras, to let him know how much this confession was tearing him apart.  But Combeferre was still there, watching them intently, and Grantaire didn’t know how much Enjolras was willing to admit about their relationship.  So, he stopped himself, curling his hand into a tight fist instead.  “But Combeferre is right.  You know too much to idly stand by.  If something bad were to happen under his presidency, the guilt would consume you.”

“And you know something bad _would_ eventually happen,” Combeferre added, supporting Grantaire’s argument.  “It’s clear now that he went back to Panama for a reason.”

He was right.  They were both right, and Enjolras loathed to admit it.  He wasn’t ready to accept this great responsibility, to use his voice for something other than university debate tournaments and residential hall meetings.  In short: he was scared shitless.

“I…I wouldn’t even know where to begin, how to reach out to people and make them trust me.  That was always Adrien’s area of expertise, however misguided it was.”

Combeferre stood up and started pacing the short length of Enjolras’ dorm room, the wheels fervently turning in his head as he considered their first plan of action.  “Trust is not made, it must be earned.  In order to earn people’s trust, all you really need to do is tell the truth.  But that’s ground you have to tread lightly.  You can’t just go on the news and make a gross accusation against a fan favorite government official.  You need to start small, build trust amongst friends and colleagues first.  After all, you confided in me,” he glanced over at the half-naked brunette and gave him what looked to be a nod of approval, “and Grantaire, and we’re both on your side.  There are others that I know would listen if you were just open and honest with them, like Feuilly—hell, every single member of the Friends of the ABC.  You’re our leader, Enjolras, and we’ll help you in any way can.  All you need to do is ask for it.”

Enjolras shook his head vehemently, running a hand through his ruffled locks.  “No.  I can’t tell the others just yet.  Not until I have a sound plan of action in place.  I don’t want anyone else to be privy to this information until I’ve assessed any and all risks involved.”

“That’s very noble of you,” Grantaire remarked, pairing the sentiment with a half-hearted eyeroll—which Enjolras had observed quite enough to know that he was about to disagree with him, “but if you go through with this, they will find out eventually and, well, if I were in their shoes, I would want this information to come from you and not some media outlet.  They’re your friends, Enjolras.  If you want them to trust you and your story, you have to trust them in return.”

“Not to mention, it’s a good way to lay some ground work.  Start small, by informing friends and close acquaintances who you really are so that by the time the media receives wind of it, you’ll already have people rallying at your side.”  This was the second time this morning that Combeferre shot down Enjolras’ plan in favor of Grantaire’s, and it kind of irked him.  Yes, he hoped that his best friend and his secret lover would eventually form a bond, but did they really have to gang up on him like this?

Enjolras waved his hands in the air, hoping to put an end to this argument.  “There’s no need for us to rush into anything.  The election’s nine months away, which means we have plenty of time to consider how to approach this intelligently. Let’s sit on this topic for 24 hours and reconvene tomorrow morning.  Is that a reasonable enough plan of action for now?”

Grantaire raised his hands in mock defense.  “Hey, you’re the boss man.”

“I can agree to that,” Combeferre then replied.  “Besides, that will give me time to prepare a formal proposal on how I think we should execute this whole thing.”

Grantaire shook his head and smiled as if he was holding back a laugh, the crinkle in his eyes making him look younger than ever before.  “You know, it’s really starting to make sense why you two are best friends.”

Enjolras crossed his arms and stuck his chin out, like the proud aristocrat Grantaire sometimes envisioned in him.  “Because we’re both like-minded intellectuals who believe in methodical forms of persuasion?”

“Because you’re a couple of dorks,” came the brunette’s snarky reply.  It was quiet after that; too quiet, actually, and slightly awkward as Enjolras started unknowingly flirting with his eyes—with Combeferre observing this exchange as if he was trying to understand it better.  “Uh, Combeferre?”

“Yes,” the bespectacled man replied unconsciously.

“Since we’ve all agreed to meet tomorrow, could you, I don’t know, leave so I can put some pants on?”

Combeferre pushed the bridge of his glasses up before making his way toward the door.  “Um, right.  Sorry, I’ll just take my leave now.  But, Enjolras, don’t think this excuses you from having that ‘conversation’.”  He gave a sideways glance toward Grantaire to indicate what he was referring to.  “It doesn’t need to be said that I will keep your secret—again—but as your friend, I trust that you would confide in me in these matters.”

Enjolras sighed and Grantaire blushed because, well, of course they were talking about him.

“I’ll call you when I’m ready to talk about it,” Enjolras said, his eyes downcast.

Combeferre left after that, leaving the pair sitting in an almost unbearable silence.  A lot had happened in the last hour.  Questions were left unsaid.  Feelings were yet unknown.  Grantaire made no move to retrieve his pants, instead occupying the thick, palpable silence by smoothing out the creases of Enjolras’ bed sheet.

 “So…” he finally breathed out, when it was clear Enjolras was in no hurry to speak.

The blonde could only nod in response; lost in thought, stuck in this loop of hearing his father’s voice make grand promises, while subliminally declaring war on the country.

“I feel like there’s something I’m supposed to say or do here,” Grantaire continued, “being the psuedo-boyfriend and all.  I just…I mean, it’s no small secret that I have never been considered ‘boyfriend material’, but it’s something I’m willing to work on if it’ll make you happy.  Do you, like, want a hug or something?”

Enjolras gave him a funny, almost accusatory, look.  “I don’t do hugs.”

Okay, then.  Hugs were now off the list indefinitely.  “Did you want to have sex again?  I know that’s kind of a weird thing to just lay on the table like that, but I’m running out of ideas here and, I don’t know, sex might be a good way to calm the storm that’s currently raging in your head.” 

“I’m not really in the mood for that right now, Grantaire,” Enjolras replied, looking troubled and distant once more.

This was probably his cue to leave then—as much as it always pained Grantaire to voluntarily leave his blonde god.  He started inching off the twin-sized bed and quickly scanned the floor for his clothes.  “Why don’t you try and get some more sleep then.  I can come by later and, if you want, we can go get some of that tea you like.”

“You’re leaving?” Enjolras asked softly, eyes glancing upward at Grantaire’s now standing visage—clad only in a pair of worn, forest green boxers.  “But…but I don’t want you to go.”

“What do you want then?” Grantaire asked, full of sincerity and a smidge of exasperation because how long were they going to do this dance?

Enjolras could only shrug at first, and making eye contact with Grantaire was suddenly a very difficult task.  This wasn’t good enough for Grantaire, so he continued to search the floor for his green shirt—but when he found it, Enjolras stopped him from putting it on.

“What I want,” the blonde started shakily, “is to not live in fear anymore.  Don’t you see now why I’ve been playing by the rules? Why I’ve been doing so for the last six years?  It’s because it’s safe.  When you play it safe, no one notices you.  I pretended to have a normal existence while I let this thorn in my side fester and rot to the point where trying to remove it now would just cause even more pain.  I just want it all to stop hurting, Grantaire.”

Grantaire, entranced, brushed his thumb across the angelic man’s lower lip.  He thought carefully about his next words, wanting to say whatever it took to bring back to life the fierce, resilient Enjolras he knew and loved.  “If it was as easy as asking, I would do everything in my power to stop your pain.  But this is an obstacle in your life you can’t ignore.  Once you see it through and Petitjean receives a just sentence for his crimes, an enormous weight will lift off your shoulders, and maybe then, you can finally live that normal life you dreamed of.

“Now, I’m not saying this is going to be easy,” he continued.  “In fact, there may be moments where either one of us wishes to go back to a time when we were blissfully ignorant of the current circumstances.  But I promise that I will never abandon you because, believe it or not, I have an end goal in this too.”

Enjolras looked at him curiously.  “What are you talking about?  What end goal?”

Grantaire knelt in front of Enjolras so they were at eye level as his hands began caressing both sides of the blonde’s face.  “To be with you, free of fear or consequence.  I want to hold your hand as we walk through the quad.  I want to get openly possessive whenever it looks like someone’s flirting with you.  I want to share a cup of fro-yo instead of each of us getting our own.  Hell, I’ll even go on a double date with Cosette and Marius if it means spending time with you outside the confines of your room.”

Enjolras jutted his lip out which made him look like a puppy and, god damnit, Grantaire just wanted to kiss the crap out of that adorable face.  But he digressed.  If there was one thing Grantaire learned about relationships, it was patience.  After all, slow and steady wins the race.

“Would it be uncharacteristic of me to say that I want these things too?” Enjolras then asked, a blush creeping up his neck and on his cheeks.

Grantaire tilted his head as he considered his response.  “Sort of.  But I think that’s when I like you best—when you’re unpredictable.”

 

 

 

The next day, they met with Combeferre as planned.  Three days later, they brought Feuilly into the mix.  He was unsurprisingly sympathetic to Enjolras’ plight and eager to lend a hand whenever necessary. 

Taking down a U.S. government leader was not going to be an easy task, and in order to secure the proof they needed, the four friends spent hours each day looking up anything they could find on Adrien Petitjean.  If they weren’t sleeping or in class, they were perusing the non-fiction section of the library, reading foreign affairs articles that spanned the last 10 years, or meeting up in the cafeteria during meals to share their findings.

The man had achieved a lot in his time in office, and people certainly had a lot to say about him.  Most of the reports were positive—praising Petitjean’s benevolence and his ability to act on his promises—but there were a few individuals who were able to look past the bullshit and see the truth.  Enjolras was determined to find those people.

Grantaire wearily threw himself into an empty chair in the cafeteria.  “If I have to read one more article about this asshole, I’m going to pluck my eyes out with a plastic fork.”

Enjolras sighed, fearing when this moment finally came, but ready to face it nonetheless.  “I know how taxing this has been on all of you,” Enjolras said as he took a seat next to Grantaire.  They were joined by Combeferre and Feuilly.  “Listen, I am grateful to have had your help thus far, but none of you are under any obligation to further these pursuits with me.  If it is getting to be too much for you, please let me know.  I am more than capable of handling this task alone, even if it takes me years to achieve.”

Combeferre, Feuilly and Grantaire all reacted in their own way to Enjolras’ dramatic proclamation, but Combeferre was the one who first.  “How long are you going to continue doing this, Enjolras?  When are you going to realize that we’re in this for the long haul?  All of us.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire chimed in, munching on a french fry, “stop trying to get rid of me, because it’s not gonna work.  There’s no need to get your panties in a twist because I complained about reading news articles.  It is my right as an American citizen to complain so, god damnit, I’m gonna do it!”  He finalized his exclamation with a wink.

“Instead of dwelling on these highly irrational feelings of guilt, you should be recruiting more allies,” Feuilly added.  It was Enjolras’s turn to roll his eyes because he thought he had already told them that this subject was not up for discussion yet—perhaps Feuilly was hard of hearing.  “You know I’m right, Enjolras.  We still have a lot of ground to cover, and if you hope to contact as many of the journalists that are on this list as you can, we’re going to need all the help we can get.”

If Enjolras was a cartoon character, smoke would be shooting out of his ears.  He gave Feuilly no direct reply, but Grantaire was able to pick up on enough of his nonverbal cues to know it was time for a change in subject.  “Hey, did you get a hold of that General What’s-His-Face that you used to know as a kid?”

Enjolras took the bait, giving Feuilly one final glare before responding to Grantaire’s question.  “That, unfortunately, has proved more difficult than I originally thought.  All I could discern is that he’s no longer an active member of the U.S. Army.  Any more information regarding his whereabouts is probably locked in a database and can’t be disclosed to the public.  It’s fruitless, anyway.  He’s probably happily retired and living on some exotic beachfront property.”

“Or he’s hiding from the government,” Feuilly added, not wanting Enjolras to rule out this very real possibility.  It was a dangerous game they were playing, and if they wanted to play with the big boys, they had to think like them too.

“Or he’s dead,” Grantaire absentmindedly blurted out as an afterthought.  The silence that engulfed the table made him hyperaware of his folly.  “My bad.  I didn’t mean to get all morbid on you guys.”

“I think the point that needs to be made here, Enjolras, is that we don’t know where General Laroche is or what he has been up to since you last spoke with him six years ago.  Right now, he’s the only viable link to your past, which means it’s imperative that you at least try to contact him.”

Enjolras rested his head in his hands, suddenly feeling a wave of exhaustion rush through him.  “I understand, but contacting him is quite out of the question since any further information about him is in a government-secured database.  I’m a Poli-Sci student, Combeferre, not a computer hacker.”

This, of course, made Grantaire chuckle, because why didn’t he think of this before?  “Maybe not you, but we definitely know someone who is.”


	22. Trust Not What We've Come to Make of the Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? Another chapter within a week of the last one? Shocking, I know, but I had a few days off of work so it only made sense to do so. Thanks for sticking with this, guys!

“No!  Absolutely not!  That is completely out of the question.  I mean, why would you even think that I would be okay with this?”

Grantaire scratched the back of his head.  “Truthfully, Ep, I didn’t, but I thought being upfront with you about it was safer than going to Gav behind your back.”

She folded her arms across her chest and stuck her chin out haughtily.  “That was a smart move, I’ll give you that.  But that does nothing to change my mind.  I’m not gonna let you endanger my brother’s life by having him become an internet hacker.”

“It’s not like I haven’t done something like that before,” Gavroche mumbled under his breath, which earned him a death glare and a silent promise of a future punishment from his sister.

It was difficult enough convincing Enjolras that it was a good idea to get the Thenardiers involved, but actually getting Eponine to agree to it was a whole other ballpark.  Grantaire had to come up with a good enough lie, and he had to do it quickly.  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.  Who said anything about hacking?  If anything, I said it was ‘like’ that, but we’re not actually doing anything illegal.  It’s just a simulation database…for an IT class project.”

“A project you all happen to be in the same class for?”  Eponine not-so-subtly punched Grantaire in the arm.  “Stop giving me the run around.  I’m not an idiot.  Something’s up.  You want my brother to do something illegal and I want to know why.”

One thing Eponine was known to have a knack for was breaking people down.  Giving up wasn’t part of her regular vocabulary—perhaps that was why she held onto that dream of Marius for so long.  She also had a keen sense for picking out the weakest link in a bunch, then staring them down until their resolve finally cracked.  The sweat on Grantaire’s brow made him an all too easy target.

“Okay.”

Eponine zeroed in on the one who broke first—and was surprised, albeit, pleasantly so.  It was Combeferre.  They were merely casual acquaintances, but she didn’t peg him as the type to crack under pressure.  She studied his face a bit, trying to deduce if there were any ulterior motives hidden beneath the surface—but a glance was not enough for her to make a firm opinion of him.  Combeferre did, however, look as if he honestly wanted to open up to her, as if it would give him some relief to get this secret off his chest.

The look in his eyes was rather refreshing too—the way he looked directly at her and not just through her.  Eponine had never noticed before how blue his eyes were, hidden beneath those round, wire-rimmed glasses.  There was a quiet stirring in her gut as she began to ponder what his gaze implied and how she would respond to it.

Unfortunately, her opportunity to do so was cut short.  “Combeferre, I’d like to speak to you privately for a minute,” Enjolras said through gritted teeth.

“No.”  Reluctantly breaking eye contact with Eponine, Combeferre turned to his oldest and closest friend, exhaustion pouring out of his shoulders as he sighed in frustration.  “I’m done with all these secrets, Enjolras.  If you don’t want Gavroche’s help in this matter, that’s fine.  I’m sure there’s a roundabout way of finding the information we need—however time consuming it may be.  But if you want to go about this the right way, you need to be honest with the people involved.  Eponine and Gavroche are goodhearted, intelligent people.  I trust them and so should you.”

Strangely enough, Enjolras did.  He always knew that he had trusted them, as well as many of the other residents on his floor, he just wasn’t willing to admit it to himself until now.

Huddled close in the confines of Eponine’s shared dorm room—Musichetta was out at present—the Thenardiers listened with silent rapture as Enjolras recounted his history and the potential future his knowledge of that history might bring.

When he was finished, Eponine and Gavroche remained still and quietly stunned until they both started rambling simultaneously.

“Holy shit! Are you messing with us right now?”

“That’s a fucked up story, Enjolras.”

“Gav, don’t swear!”

“You did!”

“Well, that’s cuz I’m older!”

“Listen,” Enjolras interjected, a hint of despair in his voice—because it was pretty obvious that they thought his story was just that, a story—“I know it probably sounds like an extraordinarily fabricated narrative, and it’s especially hard to believe, coming from me of all people, but—”

“No,” Eponine responded rather quickly.  “I believe it.”  Enjolras’ shock was evident, which prompted Eponine to elaborate.  “I mean, yes, I think you’re an overbearing know-it-all and, at times, an obnoxious prat with a self-entitlement complex”—Enjolras rolled his eyes—“but the one word I wouldn’t use to describe you is ‘liar’.  If you say it’s true, Enjolras, then I believe you.”

Hearing his sister acknowledge Enjolras’ story was all Gavroche needed to unzip his backpack and pull out the heavy duty laptop that was inside.  He sat himself comfortably at Eponine’s desk and began logging on.  “So, mates, how may I be of service?”

The small group watched with fascination as Gavroche took all the necessary precautions before getting to work.  He plugged in a secure, untraceable hard drive, temporarily deactivated the components of his firewall that would only get in his way, and then effortlessly designed code that would grant him access to the U.S. Army database—undetected.

At this point, there was really no question that Gavroche was a certified genius.  Not to say his intelligence was ever in question, of course, but watching him work—the way his brain sent signals at a landmark pace—was nothing short of astounding.

Within an hour, Gav was able to pull up a roster of non-active service men and women that were stationed at Fort Duncan.  Enjolras’ father had taken him there to visit General Laroche once or twice, so he figured that was the best place to start looking for him.

As several sets of eyes scanned Gav’s computer screen, Enjolras glanced at Grantaire from across the room—and immediately regretted it.  That arrogant son of a bitch was smirking at him, self-satisfied and eyes burning with a need to tell the blonde something—probably ‘I told you so’.  Grantaire always got so cocky when he was right.  He relished in the little things whereas Enjolras was always looking ahead, never dwelling on the now but instead pursuing what may be.  Maybe that was what attracted him to Grantaire in the first place, how much they complimented each other’s intricacies.

“Found him!” Gavroche proclaimed boisterously, unfortunately putting an end to the eye-fucking that was taking place behind everyone’s backs.  “According to this, General Gerard Laroche was a lieutenant for eight years until he was appointed the four-star rank of general in February of 2005.  His term as general would’ve last three years, but it looks like his term was cut short when he was…reported MIA in June of 2006.”

Feuilly glanced at Enjolras.  “That doesn’t sound good.”

Their fearless leader was getting anxious, that much was apparent to Grantaire.  He didn’t want him giving up just yet.  “Well, missing in action’s better than killed in action, right?  I mean, there could be a number of explanations for his disappearance.  What does it say about his family, Gav?”

Working his magic on the keyboard once more, Gavroche pulled up another screen.  “His file says he has—or had—a wife and three kids in Pembroke, New Hampshire.  Let’s see if I can pull up any information on them outside the database.”  He did a Google search of the Laroche family, looking for stories about them in all the local New Hampshire papers.  “Okay, here’s something.  Faye Laroche, the general’s wife, was actively involved in searching for her husband in 2006.  She even sent her kids to boarding school so they wouldn’t be caught in the middle of it and so she could devote all her time and effort to her search.  His disappearance was a big deal in southern New Hampshire at the time.  Apparently, Laroche was a well-respected member of the community and everyone was shocked that there was no evidence as to where or why he went missing.  It wasn’t until 2009 that Mrs. Laroche finally put the search to rest and held a private memorial for her husband so she and her kids could say goodbye and move on with their lives.”

“That’s so sad,” Eponine said amongst the general disquiet of the room.  “Grieving for years and never having closure.  I can’t imagine what they’ve been through.”  Her sentiment was felt by all. 

The wheels in Feuilly’s head started turning.  “What if he started digging after his phone call with Enjolras?  What if Petitjean—”

Enjolras was ready with a retort, but Combeferre beat him to it.  “Assuming such an atrocity occurred, Feuilly, is careless and, not to mention, dangerous.  Yes, we know this man is greedy and capable of terrible things, but there are not enough facts in this case to assume the worst.  Laroche could be a prisoner of war or he could have voluntarily left, for all we know.  My point is that there is a lot we still don’t know.”

“And how exactly are we gonna get this information we’re looking for?” Eponine asked, genuinely interested but knowing how futile their efforts might be.

“A good investigator always knows to go straight to the source.”  As Gavroche said these words, he handed a paper hot off Eponine’s printer to Combeferre.  “Here’s Mrs. Laroche’s home address.  If we can get someone to go over there and talk to her, we’re bound to get another piece of the puzzle.  She’s been questioned about her husband’s disappearance before, but perhaps they didn’t know the right questions to ask.”

Combeferre stroked his chin thoughtfully.  “Who would we send?  Enjolras has too many connections to that family, it might draw unwanted attention, but she might find it difficult to trust any one of us considering we’re just a bunch of nobody undergrads.”

“Do we know anyone that’s a Journalism major?”  Feuilly suggested.  “Maybe they could speak to her under the guise of writing a report about unsolved missing persons, or something like that.”

“Cosette,” Grantaire answered, her name spoken like a whisper.  Of course, he regretted saying it the moment the first syllable left his lips.  Enjolras didn’t want any more people involved.  He had made that abundantly clear.  Hell, Grantaire wasn’t even sure if _he_ wanted Cosette involved—the only people he loved fighting a political war of which they had little standing.  “Cosette’s majoring in Broadcast Journalism, but…I don’t know, maybe asking her to fly out east is taking things a bit too far.”

Feuilly scoffed.  “Yeah, tell that to the millions of people who think Petitjean’s a saint, or the woman who doesn’t know why her husband went missing, for that matter.  Tying her knowledge to ours could give Mrs. Laroche the closure she needs.”

“I thought we agreed Petitjean’s involvement in the general’s disappearance was just speculation at this point,” Eponine countered.

“Which is why Cosette should go talk to Mrs. Laroche!”

Grantaire wasn’t the only one that knew their leader would fight this.  Combeferre turned to Enjolras, causing everyone else in the room to face him as well.  “I know you said we should wait to include anyone else in the plan, and I understand—to a certain extent—your reasoning behind it, but finding out Mrs. Laroche intel could be the leverage necessary to—”

“Set up a meeting for tonight after the last regularly scheduled class gets out,” Enjolras announced as if he was talking to himself and not a room full of people.  He had kept his mouth shut until this point, receding into the background to collect his thoughts while the others bickered and made gross accusations.  “Make sure everyone is in attendance, because I’m only doing this once.”

The silence that followed Enjolras’ request was unsettling.  “Doing what, exactly?” Combeferre prompted.

“Finding out who my real friends are.”

 

 

The stage was set.  The lights in the small conference hall were dimmed and the tables neatly arranged in the inclusive square they had all grown accustomed to.  There was no pizza this time, but in the end, it didn’t matter.  The Friends of the ABC enjoyed their little meetings—even sarcastic Courfeyrac and ingenuous Marius who only believed in the simple truths of love, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness—and the fact that Grantaire and Combeferre declared it to be an ‘emergency council’ was enough of a draw for every member to show up.

Enjolras had fully intended to prepare a speech.  This was a delicate matter so carefully planning out what he would say to them seemed like the appropriate thing to do.  Except, this wasn’t anything like one of his debate conferences—this was a matter of the heart.  Enjolras, a young man who had lived a quiet lie for the last six years, was on the verge of baring his soul to a room full of people.  Not just any people—his friends.  He was afraid of being rejected, being ridiculed by people he cared about, which was why it was so hard for him to put a single word to paper.

And, in the end, he didn’t.  Instead, he took a sip of water, a few steadying breaths, and let the words flow out of him like a torrent.

“I would like to start by formally apologizing to all of you here tonight.  It’s taken me a long time to realize what friendship means and how much the quality of one's life improves merely by broaching trust and honesty with those around them.  I admit that over the last eight months I have not been honest with you, nor have I let myself get close enough to trust you.  That was a flagrant error on my part and I seek to make amends with you now.

“My surname is not LaMarque, but Petitjean.  I took my uncle’s name after being emancipated from my real family, a family so caught up in lies, corruption, and political ambition that I no longer wanted to be a part of it.  My father, who is the current Secretary of State but--as you may have heard--will soon begin a campaign for the presidency, is not the glowing figure he is painted as on screen.  Adrien Petitjean is a money and power hungry villain and I have evidence to believe that he is largely responsible for the plague in Panama City that claimed thousands and thousands of innocent lives.  He faked my own death so that I would no longer be a burden to him.  He must be stopped and he cannot see this presidency through. 

“A small team has been organized to investigate my allegations further so that we can bring this knowledge to the public, but progress is slow.  That is why I hope to add all of you to our team, that is, those who are willing to join us.”

Several mouths were agape, some even looked eager to speak on the matter, but Enjolras was not finished.  “I understand that many of you have questions, or at the very least, criticisms and speculations about what I have just confided in you.  That is to be expected, and I promise to provide you with more concrete details in time.  Right now, I wish to address the reasons behind why I am speaking to you with such unexpected candor tonight.

“The moment I decided to come out of hiding was the most terrifying moment of my life.  More so than the day I discovered who my father really was.  I am afraid.  Why shouldn’t I be?  I’m a 24 year-old Poli Sci student that has never addressed a crowd of more than 30 people and I’m going up against a political media mogul.  Any person with half a brain would be scared shitless right about now.  But my fear should not stand in the way of the one solution that can make this country a safe and honorable place to live again.

“What is so fantastic about our Constitution, is that it is so simple, so practical, that it’ll always be possible to have extraordinary ends met by making changes to procedures and consequences without altering its central form.  ‘We the People of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, ensure domestic tranquility’…these are all principles the United States has always valued...but they can be easily misguided.  It has been and always will be a struggle for the right to live.  There will always be someone who will try to manipulate the system.  But just because we live in this vicious cycle of political dominance, does not mean we should allow it to run its course.

“Now, if we choose to see this through, there almost certainly will be dark days ahead, but I can say with more confidence than I generally allow myself, that these dark days will be worth their cost if they can remind us that our rightful destiny is _not_ to be supported but to support ourselves and our fellow man.

“In all of this chaos we have to remember that the people of the United States have not failed.  In their desperate hour, they have turned to a man that promises them hope for a better tomorrow.  Hope is what makes us human.  Hope is what prevents us from giving up on ourselves and those around us.  Hope is what they’re going to need when Petitjean is exposed for the man he truly is; and if you’re willing to help me, I believe I can provide that hope once more.  If we move forward, we must move as one; willing to sacrifice for the good of a common purpose, because without that purpose, no progress can be made and no leadership can be effective.  It is a purpose which I hope to live for and achieve…and if it comes to it, I now realize it is a purpose for which I am willing to die.”

If a pin were to drop, everyone in the room would hear it.  This was not the speech they were expecting and this was certainly not the residential advisor they thought they knew.  This was a man on the brink of sheer greatness or ultimate disaster.  Whatever it was, it was definitely bigger than any of them had ever hoped to be a part of.

No one, however, was more surprised than Grantaire.  Grantaire, who had been privy to the details of this story several times over, was stunned by Enjolras’ change in demeanor.  The facts were the same, but his determination to act was not.  _For which I am willing to die?_ Was he serious?  When did Enjolras stop erring on the side of caution?  When did he decide that it was okay to draw the short straw?

It wasn’t okay, as far as Grantaire was concerned.  This was what he feared most; that Enjolras would become a martyr for his cause and all hope would diminish with him.  At least, all hope for a life Grantaire actually wanted to live.  There was no future without Enjolras; that much had been abundantly clear to him.

“Well,” Enjolras said when it seemed as if the rest of the group needed prompting, “I have spoken my piece and now leave the floor to you.  I am ready for any and all questions you may have for me.”

Another swoop of silence came over the room.  With so many questions at their disposal, how were they to begin? 

It was only appropriate for Courfeyrac to be the first to speak, apathetically waving his hand in the air.  “Yeah, I got one.  Are there any other surprises we should be aware of?”

Enjolras was fully prepared to respond in the negative, but words came tumbling out of his mouth before his brain could catch up with him.  “Grantaire and I have been dating for the last few weeks and I feel confident calling him my boyfriend now.”

Cue the theme from The Twilight Zone.


End file.
